The Stone Lamb
by MarquessaS
Summary: A change of pace brings the brothers to Nova Scotia. They find a place filled with friendly folk and angry spirits.
1. Chapter 1

The Stone Lamb

At last they had crossed the border. The drive had been endless, really—pretty much as far from A to B as you could get on the continent. They'd fast fooded and coffee'd their way across 13 states, finally getting to the division between Maine and the province of New Brunswick. Customs was nerve-wracking. They were asked their purpose in coming to Canada, how long they planned to stay and numerous other questions. Sam had warned his rash brother to bite his tongue, no matter how annoyed he may have felt at the interrogation. After all; it could always be _worse_. The strongest argument Sam had in his arsenal was not a reminder to Dean of how his big mouth towards authority had affected the events in Bethel county, Louisiana, but rather the very real danger that they could, and would—strip the car down, and them as well; if they felt suspicious or punitive. Their arsenal in the trunk was hidden by a false bottom but it would hardly fool a customs officer on a mission. _Just keep smiling and say Yes Sir_. He did that, much to Sam's relief.

Once over the border they relaxed their frozen expressions of innocence and remembered to breathe. "Good roads here." Sam remarked. They were. Well marked, pot-hole-free and deer-fenced for mile after mile. Dean was sorely tempted to floor it, but reason prevailed; the last thing they needed in this new sanctuary was to attract the attention of the cops. -_He's learning_-Sam thought, with a rueful smile. Took a few knocks but eventually he figured things out. They drove and drove, passing endless miles of spruce forest, through New Brunswick, and finally into Nova Scotia. They could have saved a few hours by taking the ferry across the Bay of Fundy, but Dean was unwilling to part with the $300 plus fee, and was perfectly happy behind the wheel. By the time they were in Annapolis it was dark. Sam had his directions printed, and they found Helen's Cabins without any difficulty. They pulled up to the quaint and neat little white building and wearily began unloading. Sam headed over to the office to pay, and retrieve the keys.

"You wanna grab some late supper?" Dean asked, yawning. Tom's Diner was another venture associated with Helen's Cabins.

"No. I'm still full from those jalapeno chips you poisoned me with."

-_Ha,_ _that's nothing, just wait 'til later-_Dean smirked to himself.

* * *

><p>At least they didn't have to share a room. This particular cabin had two bedrooms, each with its own TV, and bathroom. Helen's cabins were spartan, but neat and tidy. If you wanted luxury, you were in the wrong neck of the woods; there was no travertine bath or designer vases of arty silk flowers here. but they were refreshingly clean and not in the least bit tacky. It was a huge relief to Sam, as he'd booked them online. He hardly wanted to hear Dean's complaints or derision if they'd proved to be a bad choice. –Not that he had much frame of reference; most of their accommodations were on the seedy side anyway.<p>

Sam had met Tom, of Tom's Diner fame. He was an affable man in his sixties, with a quirky sense of humour that was delivered in an occasionally misunderstood dead-pan manner. Sam got him, though. Dean would have thought he was just strange. Tom had recommended a few local sights, for the touristy types. Annapolis Royal was a very old town; filled with history, significant architecture, and its share of ghost stories. There was a haunted cemetery tour, but both the Winchesters passed on that particular entertainment, having a bit of an inside track on the subject and not finding it entertaining at all. They hit the sack instead. This little corner of Canada could wait until they had shrugged off the effects of their prolonged travel.

Sam, predictably, was the first up. He brewed a pot of coffee, and sat perusing the pamphlets Tom had provided. Annapolis Royal was truly an old centre, as old and established as any New England town. It had some enticing pubs, and some really intriguing old sites. But Dean was less interested in historical real estate. He wanted to know where the women were at.

Sam had little useful advice. "Well, I don't know...it's kind of a rtame are, by the looks of it. From what I read of the pamphlets, I guess the chicks will be at, what-Antique shops?… Maybe a rug-hooking studio? One of these pottery shops?" He was at a loss. Even with Dean's lack of, well, _refined_ requirements, Sam couldn't recommend any suitable hunting ground, other than the obvious pubs.

"Sam, this trip was your idea. Are you telling me that I have to hang out where the buses empty to find a date around here?"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, it's kinda touristy...but hell, you could find a woman in the Vatican; you don't need me to direct you. Besides, ever thought of picking up a little culture now and then, instead…?"

"Culture, huh? Ok, fine; guide me, oh Enlightened One."

Sam was used to this. Dean was resistant to anything new, or different. Probably a reaction to all the grave unknowns that were such a driving force in their world, but it was frustrating at times. "Look, let's just tour around for a bit. This is an old area, lots of places to see. Relax, will ya? You don't always have to have _company_."

* * *

><p>Dean grumbled, but agreed. They had a hearty breakfast at Tom's. And afterward, they just drove around leisurely, taking in the seaside views, the quaint and colourful old houses, the quintessential maritime vistas. They drove through Annapolis to scope out the evening's entertainment. They saw a couple of likely-looking hot spots-places where younger visitors could hang out, while the older set had their tea and read their history booklets. That established, Sam took a long drive along the ancient Granville Road, following the Annapolis Basin. Apple trees, horse chestnut, and hydrangea filled every corner. Flowering shrubs were rampant, despite the approaching autumn. It was certainly a verdant place. They passed an old house that had once obviously been festooned in climbing rose vines; they were a tangle over the doorway, the shingled façade-and even entwined through the fence rows. But they were all brown, dry—the flower heads blackened and shriveled. It was a stark contrast to the greens of their neighbours. The place looked as if someone had attacked it with Round-Up, or some other herbicide. It was weird, and sad.<p>

"Check that out." Sam remarked.

A sign –_The Rose Cottage_—identified it. If the roses were a defining characteristic of the place, then it was in dire straits. They were all decidedly dead.

"Huh...guess the gardener's on vacation." Dean remarked.

"Or he's really pissed. That's not normal, compared to everything else around here, don't you think?"

Dean shrugged. _It was dead plants…who cares_? They drove on, and stopped at Port Royal, and wandered around the restored 17th century French fort. Dean finally succumbed to his boredom—there was only so much history & culture he could absorb in one afternoon, he was on the verge of mooning the incoming busload of blue-haired history-buffs. Sam recognized the stage he was at and they headed back to Tom's Diner for some lunch.

* * *

><p>Chowing down, Sam couldn't shake the image of the dead roses on the cottage. "Hey Tom, what's the deal with the Rose cottage up on the Granville Rd.? How come all the roses died?"<p>

Tom pulled up a chair. "Well—" he said, "Hate to gossip about the competition, but since you asked... You'd best avoid the place. Used to be a real nice little spot, always booked solid. Edith McDiarmid owns it. But lately, this spring-it all sorta went to hell, if you pardon my language. Seems that after the last guest left, the place got strange...all those roses died, and weird stuff happening inside."

"Weird stuff….like what?" Dean asked, intrigued.

"Well, I dunno...but I heard that the electrical's all outa whack; some people trying to rent got shocked. And I heard, and don't quote me; that stuff would sorta fly around, hit people…that sorta nonsense. Now, it sounds to me like maybe there was a loose raccoon or squirrel or something in there, and the power; well, it is an old place, if rats or coons are in there, chewing on the wires...you never know what'll happen."

"Yeah, I can see that." Dean nodded. But he caught Sam's eye.

They finished their wings and fries, and waved goodbye to Tom. Once outside, Dean broached the subject. "Wanna check it out? Sounds like something a little abnormal."

"Yeah, could be. When do you want to go; now?"

"Why not? Nothing better to do."

* * *

><p>They retraced their earlier drive and pulled up in front of the house. There were no neighbours nearby, so they felt fairly safe in exploring a little.<p>

"Let's walk around the grounds first." Sam said.

Dean shrugged and followed him. The yard was overgrown; soft, fine grass, now gone to seed, approached knee-high. The perimeter of the yard—front and back-was bordered by dry-stone walls and once-lovely gardens, predominantly roses. They were a desiccated ruin now; it was depressing—especially since there had obviously been great care and attention paid to them before.

"Weird…" Dean muttered.

They continued exploring, finally reaching the back of the property, where the dead gardens seemed to culminate in a small shrine-like clearing. In the middle stood an ancient, lichen-covered slate headstone.

"Dean, come here." Sam said, kneeling to read the inscription. It was obscured by the mossy growth, the lettering almost illegible. Sam brushed at it, revealing the wording more clearly.

_In Memory of Hannah Shawe_

_b. 1765_

_Departed this life November 14th 1792_

_A good wyfe and Mother_

_Struck down by Griefe_

_that none could hope console_

_May God have mercye on her Soul_

"Wow...that's an old one." Dean mused. "Wonder how come it's here, and not in the cemetery in town?"

Sam read it again. "Struck down by grief….and may God have mercy on her soul….that's unusual wording. Maybe she committed suicide after losing someone close to her. That would have been an unforgivable sin back then, could have kept her out of hallowed ground."

"Hmm." Dean grunted. He examined the earth around the old stone. Nothing seemed to be wrong with it, it seemed undisturbed, except that all the plantings, -once beautiful—were dry and lifeless. Something had affected them in a negative way, there was no doubt about that. There was a little patch of bare ground beside it, where even the grass seemed to have failed.

"Well something must have changed. She's been here over two hundred years without a problem it seems, but now."

"So you think this is something related to her? I mean, it could be anything; maybe even just critters, like Tom said."

"C'mon, Sam; you've seen as much shit as I have, you know this isn't normal. The dead plants, the stone, people being scared out of the house -that sounds like an angry spirit to me."

"I guess. But it could be anybody, this place has a long history."

* * *

><p>They wound their way along the path of ruined roses, and returned to the house. Dean rattled the door, but it was locked. He looked around cautiously. "Wanna check out the inside?"<p>

Sam nodded, and Dean took out his kit and swiftly gained access to the house. They made sure there were no watchers, and stepped into the hall. The air was stale; old-smelling. The house was dressed in period colours, spare and pleasing. Simple, early furnishings added to the décor. Naïve paintings, presumably of former inhabitants, hung on the walls...dour, serious faces.. Photographs in faded sepia showed early views of the house. Dust softened the edges everywhere. It was obvious no one had been here in some time. They wandered through in silence, looking for anything that could indicate what was happening. Sam stood in front of one of the paintings. The crackled paint showed a thin, pale child-a girl—with gossamer blond hair. She looked to be perhaps five or six years old. She wore a white dress, with fine lace, and embroidery, and ribbon roses at her waist. A grey kitten curled in her lap. There was no name or inscription. Another painting showed a woman, dressed in simple, stately clothing, typically 18th century. Her expression was soft; not smiling, but gentle nonetheless. The resemblance to the girl was striking. This work had a plaque on the frame. _Hannah Shaw_.

"Dean, this is her; the woman in the garden."

Dean joined him and gazed at the image for a moment. "Nothing seems wrong around the place." he said. "Maybe we should-"

He stopped, aware of a quiet, rattling sound. The pictures on the wall were beginning to vibrate, as if in protest to being fixed there. Sam looked at him, nervously stepping back from the images. They were suddenly aware of the plummeting temperature. The house wasn't warm, but now it was icy. Dean scanned around warily, and caught a glimpse of light, a crackle of blue in the outlet on the side wall. Tom's words came instantly to his mind-_people getting shocked_-

-_shit!- _"SAM! Get out!"

The warning was futile. Electricity instantly pulsed from every outlet in that room. It shot out like lightning, and hit both of them with a powerful jolt. Sam was thrown, skidding across the floor boards, and stopping midway to the hall, disoriented and shaking from the shock. Dean was hurled straight back with the strength of it.

Hannah Shaw revealed her fury, her spirit consumed by maternal wrath. Deep and terrible sorrow, as raw now as it was some two hundred years before, fueled a whirlwind of bitter anger, and she directed it at anyone who had the ill fortune, or ill-will to come to this place now. In short bursts, 100 amp power was unlikely to kill anyone outright, but it was certainly bloody uncomfortable, and had the strength to hurl a body some distance. Dean had hit the wall behind him with tremendous force. Once he was able to shake off the numbness, Sam stumbled to where his brother had landed in a confused and crumpled heap against the baseboard. He'd been tossed around on many occasions, they both had; and they usually walked away with some decent bruises, or on a bad day, maybe a concussion. But this time...

"...aw, shit...shit…" Dean murmured, screwing his eyes tight as the room spun.

A coat rack was nailed firmly into the wallboards, studded with smoothly worn old hickory pegs. It had been hand whittled by Benjamin Shaw himself, when the house was new; good and stout, to hold the family's heavy woolens. A testament to the skill and care with which they were made so long ago, the pegs held firm when Dean's weight slammed against them.

"Dean, you ok? Are you hurt?" Sam knelt over him anxiously.

He didn't answer directly, but repeated his stunned mantra. The buzzing shock was wearing off, replaced now by a growing awareness of something very _wrong_.

"Dean, c'mon..talk to me!"

Dean tried, but couldn't find his voice. He sucked in a breath to try again, but coughed painfully instead. He tried to push himself up, but slipped back to the floor. Sam feared that her angry energy was about to peak again—he could feel the charge building in the air, the static crackled from his fingertips. It was urgent that they leave the house. But it was clear Dean wasn't getting up; he'd have to drag him out, and fast. He slipped his hands under his brother's arms, preparing to turn him over.

"Sam, don't...don't.. Wait!" Dean panted. His pain was obvious; he blinked away tears, holding his hand up to keep Sam at bay until he could come to grips with it.

But Sam could feel the chill in the room deepen, the hairs rising on his neck and arms. Whatever had attacked them was an even stronger presence now, and they had to get out of harm's way. He was forced to ignore him. "I have to, Dean; we've gotta get out of here now!"

The impact had left Dean thoroughly winded. He just wanted to lie still, just for a few minutes, to catch his breath. But that was a luxury that they could not afford. Sam glanced around fearfully, expecting another assault at any moment. He was terrified to move him at all, but Dean seemed fully able to move everything at the moment. But if he jarred him now…well, the result could be something life-altering.

"It's gearing up again, Dean, I can feel it!" Sam warned urgently. He was trying to master the panic he felt. "We need to get out of here! Please, you gotta let me see!" He carefully turned him onto his side, moving his head and shoulders as one. Dean choked out a curse, resisting, and flecks of blood appeared as he coughed. He tried again to push Sam away.

"Don't move, Dean!" Sam barked. He had to keep him from curling up as he pulled up the shirts. -_Always so damned many layers_… A row of livid depressions formed a diagonal line under his right shoulder-blade; three distinct, circular marks. They obviously hurt, but none of them had found his spine, thank god. At least they were spared that particular horror. Ignoring his moan, Sam scooped him up under the arms and struggled back out, dragging him into the fresh afternoon air. He tripped in the long, overgrown lawn, and stumbled to his knees with his burden.

"It's ok, Dean...it's ok, we're safe now." he said, laying him down in the grass.

Dean's eyes rolled. He was struggling for breath, and growing frantic with the effort. "Sam-" he coughed, "I can't-"

Sam could hear the sound of fluid catching in his throat. He pulled him up to a sitting position, and held him there.. He'd guessed what was causing his distress. Dean had probably broken at least one rib when he hit those damned pegs. The bone, forced inward by the impact, had punctured his lung. He was choking like someone pulled from the water, and Sam feared that blood was flowing into his airways.

"Is this better?"

Dean nodded weakly, wheezing. His eyes were dark with fear. "Hurts to...breathe-"

"I'm gonna get you to the car, Dean. We'll find help, ok?"

He didn't answer. Wild-eyed and gasping in panic, he gripped Sam's arm and blacked out.


	2. Chapter 2

NEXT

By the time Sam had dragged him into the passenger seat, Dean had regained his senses. It wasn't a benefit; he was in agony now, and it increased with every ragged breath. Sam's own vision blurred with emotion as he witnessed it, his stomach in a tight knot, helpless to offer any relief. The only positive thing was that at least he could monitor his status this way while he drove. He floored it, all the while helping Dean stay seated upright with his right arm. The Impala's engine roared; she responded with a powerful surge. Dean coughed frequently, his face a taut, damp mask, his breathing raspy. He slouched away from the seat back; it felt like a stake was wedged between his ribs and no position would relieve it. He gripped Sam's shoulder to steady himself. Even at a speed that should have called for a police blockade, the drive to Valley Regional Hospital in Kentville was 45 minutes. Poor Sam glanced at his brother constantly, hating every second that it took to get him some help. He knew how badly Dean hurt; his tight grimace and cursing were pretty clear indicators. When they were nearly there, Dean coughed again, and wiped his bloody spit on his sleeve. "Faster.." he whispered. He slumped then, unconscious, against the dash. Sam pulled him back and held his slack form tight against his shoulder, and turned the remaining ten minute drive into three.

* * *

><p>"Please, somebody help me!"<p>

They paid quick attention to the tall young man struggling to carry another into the emergency. The stricken man in his arms was coughing up blood weakly, and in obvious distress. They didn't wait on the formality of paperwork; instead he was whisked out of Sam's arms and into another room. Sam was left standing, distraught, until a kindly nurse steered him by an elbow to a seat. She forced him to pay attention.

"Now, dear. What's your friend's name?"

He offered the name he knew was currently in Dean's wallet. "Mike…Michael Edwards. He's my brother." He gave all the other pertinent information accurately, adding that he shared his blood type.

"Good. Now, tell me what happened."

Sam had to scramble for a moment. -_We were checking out a haunting, he was attacked by an angry spirit, we were nearly electrocuted, he was thrown against a coat rack_- No, that wouldn't do... "We were exploring an old abandoned house, he fell through a floor and landed on something."

"I see…ok. Now you are-?"

"Sam… Sam Edwards."

"Right. Now Sam, don't you worry, I am sure Michael will be fine thanks to your quick attention. You just sit tight; the doctor will come and speak with you shortly, ok?"

He nodded stupidly. She left him, returning a few moments later with a cup of tea for him. He thanked her for that comfort; it was better to hold the warm cup than wring his hands uselessly. Sam knew the miserable scenario by heart. _Carry him in; broken , bleeding -stand uselessly as he's taken from you and disappeared down some corridor—tell some lies, and then wait, wait, wait_. He prayed Dean would be ok. He'd been through far worse. But he had no bloody clue how they were going to cover the bill for this, especially if surgery was necessary. He couldn't shake the image of Dean staring up at him in the tall grass, frightened, as the blood frothed in his throat. He couldn't believe they were here, at this point, already. They didn't even have a chance to really experience any of the upside of this place; they'd been here merely hours, in Canada for less than a full day. He put the cup aside and dropped his disheveled head wearily into his hands.

* * *

><p>"Sam…?" A lanky white-haired surgeon approached him.<p>

"How's my brother, is he ok-?"

The doctor smiled with a tired patience. He was nearing the end of his long shift. "He suffered an isolated rib fracture, which is unusual, but unfortunately it did puncture his right lung. We repaired it in surgery. There was no lung collapse; you got here so fast that he was very lucky there. We're just making sure it stays that way. If it does happen, we'll have to put in a chest tube to drain any air and fluid interfering with inflation, but so far so good. You can see him now, but he's still sedated."

Sam nodded, grateful for the care. He made his way to the room, pulling up a chair to Dean's bedside. He glanced wearily around the room. Didn't matter what state, or what country…a hospital room was a hospital room. And Dean looked the same way he always did while in one: pale, and battered and frighteningly quiet. Sam squirmed in his chair and tried to get comfortable. He knew from experience that it could take hours for his brother to regain a conscious state. He rested his head on his arms, at the edge of the bed, and sighed.

* * *

><p>"Sam.."<p>

Sam was snoring softly, still awkwardly draped between bed and chair.

"Sam, wake up." Dean's shallow whisper wasn't enough. He nudged Sam's head with his knee, which was more effective. Sam bolted upright, and whacked his temple on the chrome bed rail beside him.

"Dean, geez, sorry, man—" he stumbled, flustered. "How do you feel?"

"Thirsty."

Sam poured him a cup of water from the bedside tray and held it for him. He took a few sips and laid his head back. "So what's the damage?" he whispered.

"Broken rib, and a punctured lung."

Dean sighed. "Yeah...figured that." He closed his eyes. "Ow." With that little statement, he drifted off again.

The tall doctor Sam had met earlier dropped by. "Did he wake yet?"

"Yes. He said it hurt, and he fell asleep again. How long will he have to be in?"

"A few days at least. He'll be weak and extremely sore for quite a while, but he'll be up and around in no time, Sam. But listen; it's important that he keep moving, and coughing regularly, to avoid any danger of developing pneumonia."

"I know; he had it a year ago, after surgery." There was a hell of a lot more to that, but Sam didn't feel compelled to elaborate.

"Well that's important to know. We'll keep an eye out for any signs of that, then."

Sam nodded. He had to bring up the subject of payment. "Uh, sir...my brother and I; we just drove up on a whim, from… um, Pennsylvania. We don't have any kind of health coverage here."

The doc smiled. "We'll figure that out later. Don't panic, you're young, healthy—and we always need good kidneys around here." he winked. Sam smiled, a little nervously, hoping the doc really _was_ kidding.

They were distracted by the patient. "So when can I get outa here?" Dean rasped.

"Mike; your injury won't keep you in here too long, but your brother told me you had pneumonia fairly recently, we want to avoid that this time. We just need to keep you here for at least a few days, for pain management and to watch that you're healing properly. "

'Mike' coughed, wincing. "Hurts like a bitch.."

"I'll bet; and it will, for a good while. You'll have to lay off the old house exploring...and any kind of strenuous activity. As to your question, as long as you don't experience any complications, you can be discharged in a few days. We don't keep anyone very long nowadays, but you'll still need a lot of rest once you're out. This is something you'll feel for a long time; -months. But judging from your x-rays, you already know all about that, don't you?"

Dean nodded. _Oh yeah, he knew._ The meds were wearing off, he turned carefully onto his side and closed his eyes with a groan.

"Don't worry, son; you'll be back home in no time."

_-home...I'll let you know when I figure that one out_- "Thanks."

"You'll be coughing up rusty looking stuff for a while; it's nothing to worry about. But keep expectorating, no matter how much it hurts; it's important to clear that out. Let the nurses know if you need something for pain. I'll check on you in the morning."

* * *

><p>Once he had gone, the brothers discussed their experience. "Well...it's official. There's one pissed off spirit in that house. You ok, Sam?"<p>

"Me? Yeah; the getting shocked thing was pretty crappy, but I'm over it. Other than that, I'm fine, I just hit the floor when we got fried. You know, your luck really sucks, Dean. That coat rack was the only thing nailed to that wall, and you managed to smack right into it. I think we'll just have to drop this one; you're in no shape to finish this."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Back up Sammy! We have a responsibility here -we can't leave this now; somebody's gonna get seriously cooked. I'll be out in a couple of days—sooner than _they_ think, and you can do some more research in the meantime."

Sam pressed the heel of his hand between his eyes and sighed in exasperation. "Dean— You know, that would have been really convincing if you weren't all glassy-eyed and whispering. C'mon, you just had surgery, you're obviously in pain, for shit's sake. You can't even sneeze without crying right now! Be a little realistic for once!"

"Doesn't matter, Sam, we're supposed to-" He'd pushed himself up to sit, but the twisting motion left him teary eyed and white-knuckling the blanket. Sam just looked at him smugly.

"Aw, just…shut up—" Dean wheezed, closing his eyes and resting his head back on the pillow.

The final announcement was made over the system—visiting hours were over. Sam got up and patted Dean's shoulder gently. He knew Dean's heart was big. And he knew he wasn't going to drop this hunt, regardless. He sighed. "I'll keep looking into it, I promise. Do you need anything before I go?"

Dean was tempted to get him to ask the nurse for a painkiller, but he just couldn't bring himself to do that. "No, I'm good, Sam. Get some sleep, I'll be fine."

Sam smiled wearily and left. In the hall, he stopped a nurse to suggest that Dean probably needed something for pain.

The moment Sam was gone, Dean succumbed to the exhaustion he'd denied while he was there. The nurse came by, but left again when she saw him sleeping soundly.

* * *

><p>When Sam arrived back at Helen's Cottages, he was just able to grab a quick dinner at Tom's before they closed up.<p>

"Now where's that charming brother of yours?" Helen asked, smiling as she handed him twice what he'd ordered.

"Uh, well…he had a little accident. He's in the Valley Regional."

"Oh my lord! What happened? Is he alright?"

Sam nodded. "He'll be ok. He fell and broke a rib. They say he'll be out in a few days; probably sooner if he starts to drive them nuts.."

She called to Tom and relayed the news. He dried his hands and came over. "Well now that's a helluva way to start your vacation here. Poor bugger. You let us know if you need anything at all, now."

Sam promised he would, thanked them and headed in. Once he was able to relax, he went online to search for any archival records relating to Hannah Shaw or Shawe. Within minutes, he had the names and burial locations of what appeared to be her family. Husband Benjamin died in 1833. And a daughter, Emeline, who died in 1792. Little Emeline was just six years old when yellow fever took her, as it had many children in those times. They were buried in the old Anglican cemetery in Annapolis. He was surprised to note that Hannah's place of burial was listed as unknown—perhaps because of the circumstances. He also noted the dates of both mother and daughter's deaths—they were less than a year apart. If Hannah had taken her own life because she was inconsolable with grief, it seemed fairly clear that it was for her little girl.. He remembered the sweet portrait of the child—the roses, and the kitten. And Hannah's image, her face radiating a gentle goodness. If the dangerous spirit in the house was indeed Hannah, what could have happened now to cause her terrible anger? He had to go back to that house; there had to be some clue….but first he would head out to the cemetery where Emeline and Benjamin lay. Well, _second_… Kentville would be the first thing, to check on Dean. He worried about him now, hoping he would be able to sleep away some of the pain of his injury. He could hardly keep his own eyes open—he shut the laptop and drifted off..


	3. Chapter 3

NEXT

Morning arrived abruptly, heralded by the knocking at his door by Helen. He opened it and she bustled in with a care package; a box laden with fresh breakfast items and baked goods, several newspapers and gossip mags, and two huge travel mugs full of hot coffee and a little bouquet of fall mums from her garden. Helen pushed it into his hands, patted his cheek and told him to give poor Dean their best wishes. She swept out again, the busy day already underway for her-before Sam could adequately convey his appreciation. He shook his head, smiling, and mowed through a muffin and the welcome coffee before throwing on some clothes, washing up and hitting the road.

* * *

><p>Dean was still asleep when he came in with his box. Sam opened the flaps and let the warm, sweet scent of the muffins waft over, and predictably, Dean's stomach ordered his brain to snap-to.<p>

"How are you this morning?" Sam asked, pulling up his chair.

"Perfect, as long as I don't breathe or move. What's in the box?"

"Best wishes from Helen and Tom. Are you ok to eat? Do you want your bed raised?"

Dean nodded yes to both and Sam got him sitting a little straighter. He handed him a fragrant blueberry muffin and some water. He wasn't sure if coffee was allowed yet.

"Learn anything?" Dean asked through a mouthful.

"Found her daughter and husband, they're buried in Annapolis. I'll go out there later and read their stones, there might be something there. The girl was six...she died of yellow fever, right before Hannah did. I'm thinking I should check out that house again, look at those old pictures on the wall—maybe there's stuff that can tell us something."

Dean's protest was lost in a choking fit of flying muffin crumbs. His eyes streamed as he coughed, and Sam gave him a bit of water when he could manage it.. "Sonofabitch!" he rasped. It was unfortunate, the slightest motion was still excruciating. When he had regained composure he glared at Sam. "Are you _nuts? _You can't go in there after yesterday! You'll get your ass toasted, and nobody will be there to stop it!"

"I'll pull the main breaker first in the electrical panel then. We need to learn more, Dean. C'mon; you're the one who refused to drop this...how else am I gonna be able to?"

Dean took a few wincing breaths before he spoke again. "Sam, just wait 'til I get out for that...it's too dangerous by yourself."

Sam softened, realizing that despite his own predicament, Dean was, as usual, -more concerned for him.

"Dean, even when you are allowed out of here, you won't be able to do anything. You heard the Doc; you're supposed to have bed rest for the next while. I'd have to go in by myself either way. Now shut up before you hurt yourself."

A nurse entered, checking on him and dispensing his meds. He gratefully swallowed the painkiller and rested his weary head back on the pillow. Sam could see he was at his limit for now, he needed rest. "Look, I'll go to the cemetery and the archive building, that's it. After that I'll come by around lunch, ok? I won't go out to the house yet, I promise."

Dean nodded, relieved. Sam took the bouquet and set it into a cup of water beside the bed, leaving the box of goodies within his reach. "Sleep, dumb-ass. I'll see you in a few hours."

He nodded again and shut his eyes, giving Sam his opportunity to exit.

* * *

><p>Sam drove back to Annapolis, thinking about the house, the events, the stone. Dean was right; it had been 200 years of peaceful coexistence between the living and the dead in that house….what was different now? There had to be some sort of catalyst. The old cemetery was the one they did the tours in. It was in the center of town, dotted with massive and ancient oaks and pines. Sam parked and took his camera and notebook. The stones ranged in age from the late 1600's to the early twentieth century. He knew the era he sought, and the markers from that time were generally made of the smooth, black local slate, still crisply readable after so many years. The later sandstone and marble ones were much more worn by the elements.<p>

After a half hour or so, he found what he sought. Benjamin Shaw's stone was sandstone, bland, unsentimental and worn. But his daughter's; Hannah's child—was one of those carved in slate. Sam marveled at how death was dealt with in earlier times; in an era when people were practical, pragmatic, and used to great hardship and loss. The stone had none of the simpering sentimentality of the Victorians—instead, it had a highly stylized, naïve depiction of a skull at the top; winged, and surrounded by crude twining vines which framed the simple sentiment. It was macabre by modern standards. The stone carvers did their best with the illiteracy and imagery of their time, but the result was pretty harsh. Their work didn't celebrate death, but it certainly didn't soften it either.

He photographed and read the girls stone.

_In Memory of __Emeline Shaw_

_Daughter of __Benjamin and __Hannah Shaw_

_who died __July 14th 1792_

_Aged 6 Years_

_Our little lamb, __call'd back unto_

_the arms of the Lord._

_Here rest in peace thou lovely maid,_

_Here sleep in sweet repose,_

_And tho' thou molder with the dust_

_Thou art fairer than the rose._

It was poignant prose. He thought of the hardships these early people had to suffer. Children died often, and young-succumbing to every pathogen and illness that circulated in the population, with nothing to protect them. So different nowadays… The reference to roses—that was significant. Who knows how old some of those now-dead plantings were-they could have originated in the gardens of these people. He imagined Hannah, lovingly tending them, as her frail little girl played with her kitten beside her in the sunny garden. And the lamb; was that a religious reference, or something more sentimental? He knew from experience that child graves were often marked with such imagery; a small stone, a cherub, or a carved marble lamb—often without a name. Just a sad reminder that yet another young one lay there beneath the soil. Names were even recycled, infants died so often. He remembered an old case where a Sarah Quereau had been named three times in one single family—each time a new baby was born after the death of an older child..

But Hannah and Benjamin had only one child, and Emeline had died, taking with her the light and reason from her mother's life. Still, Sam wondered…why react now? It had been over two hundred years of quiet slumber...why the violent unrest? What was the key here? Sam checked the time. It wasn't near lunch yet. Tom had said the Rose Cottage was owned by an Edith McDiarmid. He'd also surmised that the problems started after a spring rental. Edith would have records—contact numbers of the renters. He thought Mrs. McDiarmid was due a visit.

Having found her address through the local phone book, Sam thought about his approach. She lived close, on the Granville road herself. She probably knew a good bit of the house's history. But whether she was happy to discuss it remained to be seen; -after all, she'd been losing income ever since the problems started. She was either going to be happy and relieved to discuss it, or closed-mouthed and hostile. He wouldn't know his tact until he'd actually met her.

He called, and a quavery voice answered. "Yes, this is Edith McDiarmid…"

"Ma'am, My name is Sam….Edwards. I'd like to talk to you about the Rose Cottage."

There was a pause. "Oh…well, I'm afraid it's not available."

Sam had expected that. "Ma'am, may I speak with you candidly?"

Edith paused again, then chuckled. "Well, I expect so…not much point, otherwise. How can I help you?"

Sam decided that the truth, or at least a version of it, was the best tact in this case. "Mrs. McDiarmid, I am a researcher. I study things called paranormal events. Please don't hang up on me, I'm not a charlatan, and I'm not looking for anything other than information." He waited, and when she stayed on the line, he continued. "I understand that there have been some unfortunate happenings at the Rose Cottage lately. I believe we can help you. Ma'am—we are not after any payment, we're just research scientists trying to solve the unexplained. Could I speak with you?"

Edith was an old woman, but she was in full command of her faculties. She knew things weren't right at that house, but she didn't go around blathering about it. People would think she'd gone barmy and cart her off to the home. But here now was a person who might actually believe what she had to say, and it would a relief to be able to finally speak with someone about this nonsense. And if he wasn't what he claimed to be—well, she had Dwight's shotgun in the pantry, and she might be an old biddy, but she still knew which way to point it.

"Well...I suppose that'd be alright. Why don't you come down here for tea? My address is 2456 Granville, it's a white house. Do you know the area?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll come out now, and thank-you."

He drove out immediately.

* * *

><p>Sam had to laugh. They were <em>all <em>white houses. Her house was another old one, possibly the same era as the Rose cottage. Its architecture matched; another tidy Cape with a massive central chimney and an ell off to one side. Edith was a wrinkled gnome of a woman, ancient and bent. She ushered Sam into the hall, stood while he removed his shoes, and led him into a flowery parlour.

"Thanks for seeing me." he began. "I saw the dead roses and did some research. I guess you know the name of the person who's stone is in the yard?"

She poured him a cup and nodded. "Oh yes, it's Hannah Shaw. She was a relative, on my mother's side."

Sam wasn't sure how to proceed, so he simply dove in. "May I call you Edith?"

She nodded, smiling shyly…she may be old, but she wasn't blind.

"Well, Edith...we understand that you've had some trouble at the cottage; unexplained happenings, electrical problems. Do you have any idea why that may be happening?"

Edith weighed her words now. "We did have some…difficulties…in renting since the spring."

"Yes, Ma'am, I know about that. I'll get right to the point. At the risk of coming off as a lunatic, my organization believes there may be...uh, well, a vengeful spirit, causing your troubles." He waited for the snort of derision, or the angry rejection of the ridiculous idea. Neither came.

Edith was old enough to have seen a few things in her life. She put down her cup and levelled her grey eyes at him. "Suppose I were to say that I knew that already..." she said carefully. "Do you think you people can …help? There's no point in just yammering about it; I don't want this to be a spectacle for the simple entertainment of busybodies and strangers."

He breathed a sigh of relief. He was preaching to the choir here, she didn't need convincing. He leaned forward earnestly. "Edith, I know we can. We've helped a lot of people in your situation, it's what we do. I'm not here to write fairytales at your expense. Can you tell me anything you know about the history of the cottage, and what has been happening?"

She was satisfied that he was exactly what he appeared to be. "Well, it was built by Shaws; Benjamin, and Hannah, in the late 1700's. They had a little girl, Emeline, who took sick and died young. Hannah is buried on the property, and the rest of her family in the old Annapolis cemetery. They were Planters, I believe, come from New England. The house used to be part of a farm, with a couple of barns, and the land went from the brow of North Hill behind, to the shore of the basin in front. The front part was sold off years ago, and my nephew Dwight pulled down the barns, as they were in a bad state. We never had any trouble until this spring. We rented the cottage for a week to a man from Quebec. He was a young man, a bit of a…well, I guess a party-type. He had a few loud nights, from what we understand, but nothing was amiss with the place. It was after that last rental that the troubles started.

"What kind of troubles?"

She was almost too embarrassed to say, but she reminded herself that this earnest young man was supposed to be well versed in this odd business. "Well, the roses first—those lovely old roses…they all started to die, such a shame. I tried everything, and I have a pretty green thumb, I don't mind telling you. But nothing helped. I couldn't bring myself to cut them all out-I guess I was hoping they might come back. And then things…seemed to be thrown around inside, striking people. I scoffed when they told me, at first. I thought they'd been too deep in their cups, or there was a trapped squirrel running amuck. But then I saw it myself—the paintings dancing around like there was an earthquake, and I scurried out of there pretty darn quick, as you can well imagine. And then that last couple who tried to rent; it was very unpleasant…the electrical system just seemed to go haywire. He was shocked something awful—mind you he was ok after a while, but I was lucky I wasn't sued."

Sam knew enough about that little experience. "Edith, can you give me the name and contact info of the last renter? Something had to have started the activity, and since it began right after his stay, I think that would be the best direction to go at the moment."

"Yes—yes, of course. Just hang on, now…" She shuffled into the kitchen, rummaging through a drawer of papers. "Here we are. Marc Grenier—here's his number and address. I hope that helps."

He took the paper, and thanked her. "When he left...was he happy with his stay? Do you get any sense that he might have been _chased_ out?"

"Let me think, now… I didn't speak to him when he left, but he stayed his full term, and as I recall, he waved as he passed this house—I was in my front garden. So I should think he was happy enough."

"Then I guess it's safe to say that if he or his guests did anything to bring this on, it would have been right at the end." He thought for a moment. "Ma'am—do you know if anything went missing from the house at that time?"

"Missing? Well, I don't think so…nothing I'd ever noticed. I don't keep a lot of useless bric-a-brac in the house, it's very simple in there—easier to keep tidy. But mind now, I haven't had the nerve to go in since the pictures were shaking about, and I wasn't in for long that day. I suppose something could have been taken. What sort of things are you thinking of?"

"Old items—anything relating to the house or it's former owners. If it was a stolen memento, it could be a possible trigger for the spirit's anger."

Edith sighed sadly. "It's all so strange. My nephew Dwight says I should put a match to it and good riddance…but it's a lovely old house. You should have seen it when the roses were blooming."

"Well, don't strike that match yet, Edith. I'm sure we can get to the bottom of this. I should be going. Ma'am-thanks for keeping an open mind, and for your help. I'll keep in touch."

She shrugged. "Anything to get that old place back to earning its keep. I don't have much coming in, I sure could use the money." She smiled a crinkly smile and walked him out. "Oh, wait now—you might want the key, if you need to poke around a little." She shuffled back, retrieved it and gave it to him. "Now I know you're some sort of expert in this, but you must promise to be careful! You're a very nice boy, I'd hate to see you get hurt."

* * *

><p>Sam thought about it all as he drove to Kentville. The scenario fit—he was sure it was tied to an object that was no longer where it should be. It didn't make for an easy task. They were damned lucky the last guest was in this end of the country-it could easily have been someone from the states, or even a European visitor. He remembered to pick up some fast food for the garburator in room 134.<p>

Dean was in the bathroom when Sam arrived. It was a good sign...maybe. When he emerged, he frowned, gripped the gaping back of his gown closed and shuffled his way back to the bed.

"You supposed to be up?" Sam asked, looking him over.

Dean threw him a _do I care?_ scowl. He saw that Sam came with paper sacks; that was always a good thing. "What'd you bring me?"

"Just hang on; you have to earn it. What did they say about it? Are you supposed to be up and around or not?"

Dean struggled back under the blankets with an angry grimace as Sam helped him pull them back up. "You heard him yesterday, Sam. I'm supposed go jogging and try to cough up a lung…it's all good." He was crabby this evening. Sam was pleased to see it, it was much closer to normal. He handed him the sack, and they ate their meal in silence. Sipping his coffee afterward, Dean's mood was tamed a little. "So...anything new?"

Sam nodded. "I went over and talked to the owner of the house—Edith Mc Diarmid. She wasn't hard to convince, she already figured there was something weird going on. I got the key to the place, she's on board with us checking this out and fixing it. -Nice lady." Dean raised an eyebrow with a lascivious grin, but Sam set him straight. "She's like a _hundred_, Dean. ..Little shrivelly apple-doll, so quit being gross."

"Fine—what else?"

"Got the name and address and number of the last guy to rent before the stuff started. He apparently had no trouble while he was there, but he was a partier. I asked Edith if she knew of anything missing after he left but she didn't know. But Dean, the more I think about it—the more it fits that it's a cursed object, or maybe not cursed, but a memento or something significant that got lifted at the end of the last guy's stay. After that, all hell broke loose. What do you think?"

"Sounds logical. Nobody disturbed that grave, and the house seemed ok. If there was something linked somehow...something that should never have been moved that got taken by somebody…it could have set the spirit off. What about the cemetery; did you get out there?"

"Yeah. The husband died at a normal old age in 1833, and the daughter's stone was there. Here, look-" He showed the picture on his viewscreen, and the wording that he'd noted.

"huh."

"And I also found out that Hannah's burial site is listed as unknown. Somewhere along the line there was a disconnect, and they forgot where she was buried-maybe because it was not allowed to happen in blessed ground, and they lost track of it."

Dean lay back, tired. "Nice work, Sammy. What now, do we call this guy? Where is he?"

"In Quebec somewhere. I'll call later and see if I can talk to him. Dean? You still with me?"

He was fighting to stay awake. "I heard you, sorry. They gave me another shot right before you got here." He yawned, and smiled sheepishly.

Sam smiled in return. "Ok, I can take a heavy-handed hint. I'll take off and let you sleep. And I'll keep digging."

"….awesome."

Sam was at the door when Dean added, "Sam…stay away from that place, please…wait 'til I'm with you."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Seeya tomorrow."

* * *

><p>He hated having to stick to that promise. Sam was itching to go back to the house. But he'd given his word, and he headed back to their own cottage instead. He spent some time online, watched a little tv, and finally headed out to find one of the pubs he'd seen downtown.<p>

He settled in a window seat, enjoying a draught and some nachos. It was relaxing, sitting there and letting go of everything crowding his mind for a little while. He became aware of the conversation between two locals at a nearby table; they'd mentioned the rose cottage and his ears pricked up.

"Went to check on it—looks like somebody got in there, I could see footprints and stuff. Didn't look like anything was missing, but it looked like there was some sort of tussle. I keep telling Aunt Edith to torch the place. You get some stupid kids in there, looking for a party, and somebody'll get hurt for sure."

Sam turned away. -_oops- _He didn't hear much else that was of interest. He was glad, though, that they had Edith's blessing now; he didn't want to run afoul of someone checking up on things. He finished his snack and wandered around the town, settling finally at the water's edge and watching the boats. The tide was at its peak, it was beautifully sparkling and calm. When the sun was low, the wind picked up, and he headed back.


	4. Chapter 4

NEXT

Sam was a reasonably early riser, but once again Helen's knock at his door woke him. He groaned inwardly, threw on some pants and opened it.

"Hi honey, I'm home." A haggard looking Dean leaned against the doorframe, wearing his best cheshire cat grin and handing the well-travelled little bouquet of mums to his brother.

"Aw, for shit's sake! Dean, why the hell do you keep doing this?" Sam lamented, pulling him in and dropping him roughly on the edge of his bed.

"There's nothing I was doing there that I can't do here, Sam."

"Yeah there was! What about your meds, Dean? And they're supposed to be watching you to make sure you don't blow an airbag! What are we gonna do about that now?"

"I don't need any of that, I'm-"

"You're what? .._Fine_? God, you're a jack-ass! You couldn't wait just few days more, could you? You just had to do what _you _wanted!" Sam was at the hair-pulling stage of frustration.

But Dean's hackles rose. "Look, just lay-off! Do you have any clue what it costs per day for hospital bed, Sam? It's _hundreds_, and this isn't the States; we can't get out of paying here with fake ID's." he growled. "I don't know how they do stuff here; it's another country, for shits' sake! We don't have that kind of cash, alright? So how 'bout _you_ be a little realistic for a change!" He turned away, grimacing with the painful effort of his outburst, and gingerly lowered himself to lie on the bed. He turned his back to Sam, furious at being rebuked.

Sam sighed, relenting a little. Unfortunately, Dean was right; which sucked on so many levels. He pulled off the glowering patient's shoes, tucked the blankets around him, and asked him if he wanted anything.

His muffled answer was almost too quiet to hear. "I dunno...maybe a coffee, or something warm, later. I'm kinda beat after that drive. And I could use a handful of aspirin or something…whatever you got."

Sam went out to the Impala and retrieved their first aid kit. He still had a supply of strong painkillers from David Bowman's last visit and he handed two to Dean along with water. "How'd you get here, anyway?" Sam demanded. At a normal speed, Kentville was an hour away, he knew Dean would never spring for a cab-ride that expensive.

"Hitched a ride with a Nova Scotia Power truck. Man, that guy never shut up."

Sam smiled at the image of a grouchy Dean, hunched like a sick chicken on the passenger's side, _uh-huhing_ at regular intervals as his friendly companion blithely chattered away the hour. Served him right… "Well, stupid; you're gonna be out for a while with those two pills, so at least I won't have to listen to you. I'm going back to bed."

"Fine." Dean growled, pulling the covers higher.

Sam went to the can, and then peered worriedly at Dean before settling in again, but after his tiring escapade, he was already asleep.

* * *

><p>Morning was heralded by Helen after all, if you call eleven morning. Luckily Sam was up and fresh by then, and he accepted her kind offering again, nodding toward the bed where Dean still slept soundly.<p>

"He's back already, then?" she said, incredulous.

Sam sighed. "Well, like I said earlier, Helen...sooner if he starts to drive them nuts."

She came in and checked on him, there was no dissuading her. "He's pale." she pronounced, critically. She had no idea whether he was or wasn't pale, but she was sure he must be, seeing as they let him go too soon.

Sam agreed. "I'll be looking for some of your famous chicken soup for him later, Helen." he said, hoping to derail her.

She beamed and nodded. "I'll start it on the boil now!" She left with that promise, and relieved, Sam went through the box like a vulture. Dean awoke to the scent of the coffee and box contents again. As he joined his brother in enjoying the care-package, he secretly wished Helen and Tom would adopt them.

Sam didn't want to ask, he was still frustrated and angry, despite the valid reasons supporting Dean's going awol. But he did anyway. "So…how do you feel?"

Dean looked up at him with mild annoyance. "_Fine._ So now what, do you want to go back to the house?"

Sam snorted. "Do you seriously think you're up to that? You sure as hell don't look it!"

"Don't mother me, Sam...I'm a big boy."

Sam sighed, realizing it was hopeless. "Well then I guess so, as long as you understand that you are _not_ going in with me. You wait out in the car."

It was a compromise that Dean could live with. He didn't have a lot of choice anyway, and he felt like crap, but he wasn't about to admit it. "Alright; as long as you understand that we keep cell lines open the whole time and you get your ass out of there the second you hear any of those paintings rattle or whatever."

"Deal." Sam agreed.

* * *

><p>The two drove out on the Granville Road. Sam kept glancing at his ailing brother as he drove, worrying that this was a mistake. He should have insisted that they wait, or that he go alone. Dean was leaning against the door, resting his head against the glass and holding his side, sweating with the stubborn effort of staying silent as they passed over the rough patches in the old road.<p>

"So you'll pull the switch first." Dean said again, to both distract and reassure himself..

"Yes, for the hundredth time. I don't want to get fried any more than you want to have to rescue me from it."

-_good_— "But she could do other crap too; throw stuff, or maybe drop something heavy."

Sam was exasperated. He knew Dean was out of sorts because he wasn't leading the charge, but all the same, Sam knew his way around this sort of thing by now.

"T-r-u-s-t m-e"

The house appeared in view and Sam pulled into the weedy driveway. Once again, it was quiet; no one appeared to be around. Not that it mattered this time, as they had both permission and a key. Sam stepped out into the afternoon sun. "Ok, Dean. I'll only be a short time, and my cell's on. I'll find the panel, pull the main breaker and then check around inside...ok?"

Dean nodded sourly. He hated being in this position, but he really wasn't up to it at the moment. The hard seats of the Impala hadn't helped, his back ached relentlessly, and he was tired, despite his late morning.

"See you in a bit." Sam patted his shoulder once and entered the house.

* * *

><p>Once inside, he quickly located the panel, and pulled the main breaker as promised. Now, at least, Hannah would have no access to electrical power. If she felt the need to protest his presence, she'd have to find a more conventional method. But he would be quick just the same. He scanned the interior again, seeing nothing of use. Next, he studied the many photos lining the hall. They showed the house in all seasons from the late 1800's onward. He kept his hearing acutely tuned to pick up the slightest change in sound...if the paintings or photos started vibrating again he would get the hell out as quickly as possible. But so far so good…all he heard was an occasional grunt or curse of Dean's, coming through his phone.<p>

The photos were interesting. It was amazing to see how little the house had changed over the years. He looked at them carefully, as quickly as he could; searching for anything that could have the least significance. Nothing was obvious. Until the one picture… He squinted at it for several moments, and then carefully lifted it off the wall and tucked it under his arm.

In the driveway, Dean fidgeted, waiting impatiently. Looking for distractions, he took out his gun, checking it thoroughly as he'd done a thousand times since he was taught to do so as a boy. It was in perfect condition, as always, and he dropped it on the seat beside him. More than once he tested the phone, just to make sure. Sam replied with various profanities, and he smirked to himself. It was a perfect afternoon. He was bored and getting sleepy in the warmth of the car. He'd pestered Sam more than enough. Finally, he dozed off, despite his resolve to stay alert. The sun was so soothing, he'd just rest his eyes for a second...

* * *

><p>"Come out of the car, please."<p>

Dean turned his sleepy head to face the voice, and felt the cold muzzle of a shotgun press against his cheek. He snapped awake, and turned further to see who held it, protesting, "Whoa! Relax, buddy, we're just-"

The man tapped him a little more firmly with the gun. "No nonsense, thank-you; just get out."

-_okie-dokie- _Dean complied slowly, opening the door and stiffly stepping out as the man backed up. "Look, just take it easy, buddy, we-"

"Now, get those hands up!" The man was nervous, which could either be a good thing or very, very bad.

Dean raised his left hand and got his right half way, unable to hold it any higher.

"All the way, now!"

"Can't...sorry, pal." Dean said, over his shoulder, in a conciliatory tone. "I'm a little-"

"I said all the way up!" the stranger barked, prodding him with the muzzle tip to prove he meant it. It wasn't very hard, but it was unfortunately placed, poking squarely over his injury. Dean gasped in shock and jerked away, but the twisting motion brought an even sharper pain, and he stumbled, grasping at the edge of the car door for support. He missed it and slipped awkwardly into the grass, curling up and screwing his eyes tight against the sickening ache that flooded his senses.

He hadn't meant to hurt the man. Discomfited, Dwight looked down with uncertainty at the stranger groaning on the ground, and then up again, in shock, as a second man flew out the front door, tore the gun from his grasp and flung it out into the lawn. Sam grabbed him by the shirt front and pushed him roughly away. The poor man stood stammering as this second stranger knelt anxiously over the first.

"What did you do to him?" Sam turned and growled in fury.

"Well, I...nothing, I swear! I just...I just nudged him a little!"

Sam had already turned back to his brother. "Are you alright Dean?"

"Yeah.." he winced. "It's alright, Sam, he didn't mean to. Just help me up."

Dwight Croscup stood back, hands on his hips, at a complete loss. He'd lost the edge of authority in the situation, he wasn't used to confrontation, lately anyway. He didn't know quite what to do now. "Look, I'm sorry. It wasn't my intention to hurt your friend, there," he said as Sam got Dean back to his feet. "But you boys are trespassing here. and that lad there has a _gun_ on the seat, for heaven's sake! We had a break-in just the other day, and...well-"

Sam had cooled off once he was sure Dean was alright. "No, it's ok. I guess she didn't tell you; your Aunt Edith gave us the key. We're here to see what can be done about some of the problems with the house. I'm Sam; that's my brother Dean. I guess you must be Dwight." He offered his hand.

Dwight shook it sheepishly. "Really didn't mean to cause you any hurt, there." he directed to Dean.

Dean, still ashen and hunched on the edge of the car seat, waved it off. "Don't sweat it. …Just got a little banged up a few days ago; you couldn't have known."

Dwight ran his hand over his stubble, feeling awful. "Dammit! Wish that woman would tell me these things!" He was there by coincidence. Ordinarily, he didn't walk around with a shotgun in his hand like some backwoods character straight out of Deliverance, but Edith had asked him to bring home a brace of partridge, as it was her soup-making day, and he'd seen the suspicious-looking black car from where he'd been hunting in the brush across the way. He peered guiltily at the stricken man. "You sure you're ok, there, son..? You look kind of washed-out."

Dean smiled wryly and nodded. "I'm ok. Nothing a few minutes sitting won't cure."

Sam went back, searching the long grass for the item he'd dropped earlier. He found it and showed it to Dean. It was one of the old framed photographs of the house. Well, in this case, it was a shot of the back garden; focused on someone seated on a bench by the roses. But in the background the headstone was visible.

It was blurry, but it was apparent that something else stood with it; a smaller grey thing, like a garden ornament. Dean looked from it to Sam, raising his brow. "Could be something..."

Dwight peered over, curious.

"Dwight, do you know what this is; here, beside Hannah's stone?" Sam asked.

He squinted at the picture. "Why...that's the little stone lamb!" he exclaimed. "I'll be damned!"

"Where is it now? Do you know?"

He shook his head. "It was stolen from the backyard sometime this spring. I didn't tell Edith, she'd have been some awful upset. Huh; didn't even know we had a picture of it."

-_Stone lamb_— Sam remembered the wording on the child's stone-_our little lamb, call'd back unto the arms of the lord_- It had to be a key to it all.

Dean looked at the picture again. The background was too blurred to see any real detail. "Can you describe it, Dwight? We need to know what it looks like so we can track it down."

"Oh, well...you'd best ask Aunt Edith; she'd know better. She's waiting for these birds now...you can come back to the house if you like."


	5. Chapter 5

NEXT

Dwight called to Edith as he entered the house. "Company, Aunt Edith!" He left them in the hall as he went to clean the birds.

She shuffled in and squinted at the visitors. "Oh...Hello, Sam. I see you met my nephew Dwight now. And who's your companion, then?"

"Edith, this is my brother Dean, he works with me. He's my... assistant." Sam thought he might as well have a little fun with this at his brother's expense.

Dean gritted his teeth in an artificial smile, staring daggers at Sam.

Edith smiled at the newcomer. "Well, Dean, My name's Edith McDiarmid. My nephew's is Dwight Croscup." She led them into the parlour. " I was about to make some tea—would you care to join me?"

Sam looked to Dean. He nodded, still feeling shaky and glad of any excuse to sit for a moment. Edith called to Dwight to put the kettle on. "So, Samuel...news already?" she asked.

"Well…sort of. Edith, we discovered that there is a significant item missing. Dwight identified it for us, it's the stone lamb figure that stood beside Hannah's gravestone. Dwight tells us that it went missing this spring."

She blinked with shock. "Good heavens, I had no idea! Now who would do such a thing?" Dwight was right, she was indeed upset at its loss.

"We don't know yet, but apparently, that's what was taken at the end of your last successful renter's stay. We think it may have some connection to what's been happening at the house." Sam said.

Edith digested that. "Of all the things… Those two stones were always together, we always thought the lamb was a sweet reminder of Hannah's little girl. It saddens me to think of them separated...do you think that's what set this off?"

"It seems likely. There's obviously a tragedy in the house's history, with Hannah and her daughter. The loss of an object that seems significant to that story could have had a profound impact on Hannah Shaw's spirit. We feel the next step is to track down that last renter and ask some questions. We're not sure yet what the significance of the statue is, but we're pretty sure it's connected to all this."

She nodded. She sat quietly for a few moments, wrestling with that, and then returned to the present. "Well, let's have that tea, first." She called to Dwight again, who brought out a tray with tea and home-made cookies. Edith poured the cups full, handing one to Dean first. She noticed that his hand trembled, and she hoped he wouldn't spill. As she placed her little hands over his, settling the cup more firmly in his grasp, she glanced up at his face, noting his pallor. She thought he looked like he'd seen a ghost. She gave Sam his cup, and continued to assess her newest guest shrewdly as she sipped from her own. He seemed to be in some discomfort; shivering and ill-at-ease on the chair. She thought he was favouring an arm, and he certainly had a wan look about him. He hadn't said much either.

Edith had the forthright manner that most well-aged women claimed as their due "You, dear...Dean, was it? Are you alright? You seem unwell."

Dwight stared at his feet in guilty discomfort.

Her conclusions were well-grounded. Dean was regretting the visit; he was feeling unsteady and wishing they'd put it off. He looked up and smiled unconvincingly. "I'm fine, ma'am. I just had a little accident a few days ago, it's nothing."

Dwight was relieved to have been spared his Aunt's recrimination. He glanced at Dean gratefully. Edith frowned, got up and went to the kitchen, returning with brandy and a glass. She poured a healthy shot, relieved Dean of his teacup and replaced it with the stronger drink. She wasn't stupid. She knew that someone had gained access to the cottage at about the same time; Dwight had said there were signs of struggle. This young man was clearly ailing...she could guess what had probably happened. "You had a set-to with the spirit in that house, didn't you?" she asked softly.

He was caught off-guard, and he nodded, sheepish at being busted. Much to his embarrassment, she reached forward and lifted his chin with her dry little hand, peering closely at him. He threw a _help-me_ look to Sam.

"-_tsk_- Dear, you are obviously not well. What did she do to you? You should be resting in your bed, for heaven's sake, not running around solving the silly problems of strange, old women." she admonished. She frowned accusingly at Sam.

Dean cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Ma'am, we need some sort of clear description of that stone lamb, so we can track it down."

She sighed and thought about it. "Well...it's about a foot and a half long and say—ten inches wide. Carved grey marble or some such stone... A lamb, as you know, lying with its limbs tucked under, on a rectangle base. It was well worn, not crisp and clear; and covered with grey lichen and moss. If you saw it you'd know it was very old. It's body faced left but it had it's head turned back towards the right. That's really all I can recall about it. It sat forever right beside that headstone, at least as long as I can remember."

Dean recalled the bare patch of ground beside Hannah's stone. "Was there any inscription on it?" he asked.

"No...no, I really don't think so. Unless it was underneath, but I never saw the bottom of it as it was there in its place always."

Sam had taken notes of her description, and drawn a little sketch. She took a look and smiled kindly. "I think perhaps, you should stick to your _written_ description, dear." she whispered, patting his hand.

They wrapped up their visit and headed back to their cottage.

* * *

><p>"Nice job, Picasso.." Dean snorted, as they drove back.<p>

"Oh, you caught that did you?"

Dean didn't answer, he'd closed his eyes. Sam thought he'd fallen asleep. "Edna likes me better."

"It's Edith, and you're nuts, Dean; she just felt sorry for you. She told _me_ I was a nice young man."

"Nope...likes me better. You got tea. _I_ got brandy." he smirked.

Sam had to wake him to get him into the cottage. He grumbled and hauled himself slowly out of the car, and dropped immediately face-down onto his bed. Once again Sam had to remove his shoes for him. It was only six pm, but Dean was clearly exhausted.

"I'm gonna get supper from Tom's...what do you want, Dean?"

"Ugh...nothing. Wouldn't mind a couple more of those pills though." he replied quietly.

"After some dinner, alright?"

"Not hungry...feel more like hurling."

"I know, Dean, but you need it. And you should let me have a look at that...you might've popped some stitches. You hit the ground kinda hard."

To his surprise Dean agreed, and he sat up and carefully shrugged off his plaid shirt, allowing Sam to hike up the tee-shirt. Sam unwrapped him. The three peg marks were showing nicely now, two purple circles and a larger, irregular bruise where the rib had fractured. The stitches, only a few; remained intact, much to Sam's relief. It looked sore, but not abnormal for what it was. "You'll live." he declared, replacing the bandage.

"Yay."

-_Idiot_—Sam thought angrily. That was directed to the both of them equally. He should've driven him right back to the hospital this morning, _cost-of-bed_ be damned.

* * *

><p>Helen had the promised chicken soup ready. She ladled out two styrofoam bowls of it, plus the rest of Sam's order. "So how are you two doing?" she asked.<p>

"Ok. We drove around a bit today, sightseeing. Dean's pretty tired. Maybe we'll take it easy tomorrow." he said uncertainly.

"Well I'm sure that's best." She bagged his items and handed them to him carefully. "Don't tip it now! The soup will spill all over. Say hello to the patient for us."

He thanked her and returned.

* * *

><p>Dean was asleep. Sam ate his own dinner in silence, deep in thought. He could microwave Dean's later. At 7pm, Dean was still sleeping. Sam decided to call the contact number of the Quebec renter. A woman's voice answered, in French, naturally. He hoped she had a decent command of English, or this was going to be a sitcom conversation.<p>

"Uh...hello. I'm looking for Marc Grenier."

There was a long pause on the other end; he feared she hadn't understood.

"Who is this please?"

"Uh...it's Sam Winchester, from Nova Scotia. I'd like to speak to Marc about the Rose Cottage…he rented it this past spring."

He was sure he heard a catch in her voice. "Je m'excuse, mais... Ah...I am sorry, but my brother…he passed away two weeks ago. I cannot help you." She hung up at that.

…_shit- _He was left a little shocked. It was unfortunate; and sad, and a damned unwelcome complication. So far they had an angry spirit that hadn't done any lethal damage yet, and a stolen gravestone; the return of which, he'd hoped, would bring about peace in that house. Now it was much more complicated, especially if this latest death was connected. He'd wanted to simply reunite the two memorials and solve it. Somehow that felt better than salting and burning Hannah's remains…that alone felt wrong, somehow incomplete...he wasn't sure why. But now there was less chance that they could even find the lamb. They were going to have to dig her up and be done with it. He wished Dean were awake.

_Ten pm and still snoring, poor bastard_. If he was going to be able to sleep at all during the night, Sam figured he'd better wake Dean for a little while. He shook him gently. "Dean." That got him nowhere, and he shook him a little harder and said his name louder until he got a response. Good thing he ducked.

"_What?_ Get lost!" Dean growled, rolling and turning his back to the annoyance. But Sam wouldn't relent, and his brother finally opened his eyes and hauled himself up to sit. "Ok...I'm up, are you happy? What's so freaking important?"

"Lots. But first, you have to eat something, it's after ten." He heated the soup first, and handed it to him.

Dean hadn't realized how hungry he was. It had been hours since he'd eaten anything. He finished the leftover pizza cold. "So what's up? You said there was new stuff."

"Yeah, and it's not good. The last renter, Marc Grenier; is dead. As of a couple of weeks ago. I called his number, and got a sister on the phone and she told me, and then hung up. I guess it's all pretty fresh for them still."

"Seriously? Did they say what happened?"

"No, and I didn't get the chance to ask anything more. We'll have to try them again tomorrow, but it'll be tricky. Didn't sound like they were ready to be bothered by questions from strangers."

Dean grunted. "Well too bad." he said with his usual patience and sympathy. "If this clown is dead because he stole the lamb, then we really have to track it down now. And anyway, he brought it down on his own head."

Sam sighed. "Yeah, fine; but tell that to his family. We still have to handle them with kid gloves or we won't get anywhere."

Dean scowled. "What about her...Hannah? We have to salt & burn asap, don't you think?"

Sam sat down in the chair across from him, and ran his hand through his hair. "Yeah…I guess."

"What do you mean _yeah, I guess_, Sam? It'll stop her from doing anything else, and send her to wherever she's supposed to be. Isn't that what we do?"

"Yeah, but…I don't know, I can't help but think there's more to it than that. I can't explain it right now; it's just a feeling. But don't you think that a simple stolen statue isn't really enough of a reason to make a peaceful spirit go postal after two hundred years? Why would she care? It's just a thing, she's a spirit."

Dean rolled his eyes and groaned. "Why the hell do you always have to think everything to death? I'd have been perfectly happy roasting her leftovers, and then the cottage and Edith woulda been safe and everybody's happy. For shits sakes!" He sighed in frustration, frowning. "Thanks a _lot._ Now we really have to find this stupid lamb thing, don't we?"

Sam smiled a little and shrugged. "Up to you Dean…all I'm saying is I think there's more to it. If you don't agree, well...we'll just keep it simple."

Dean stretched gingerly, raising his right arm a few times, testing. His back didn't feel any better yet, but it had only been days. He was irritated, he was beginning to think Sam might be right. There likely _was _more to it. "I guess it can wait, at least for a bit. Edith and Dwight know to keep themselves, and anyone else, out of that place for now. And so far, the only morons who broke in and got hurt since she stopped renting it were _us_." He rubbed his eyes, feeling a headache threatening. "So what now then? Just keep chasing the lamb?"

Sam nodded. "Tomorrow we'll try that number again, and see if we can get a question or two in before they hang up. That's all we have at the moment."

Dean closed his eyes. "How far a drive is it to that guy's place?"

"Don't know yet...I'll mapquest it tomorrow."

Dean got up to use the can, returned and changed carefully into sweats, and crawled, shivering, under the blankets again. "I've gotta sleep Sam; I feel like crap. Just wake me up when you want to start into it again tomorrow."

Sam agreed, rising and hovering over him. He thought Dean looked like he felt. "Need anything?"

"Yeah…a six figure desk job… A busty blonde, and a twenty-sixer with a bendy straw."

"Sorry, can't help you there."

"Well then a couple more of those painkillers and some water."

Sam got those and handed then to him as he rose onto an elbow with a grimace.

"Thanks."

Sam put his hand lightly on his brother's forehead, finding him a little warm. Dean twisted away with irritation. "Keep your clammy hands off me! Geez; go buy yourself a teddybear, for christs sake!"

Sam just sighed and turned in himself.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Sam decided to pre-empt Helen's good intentions by hitting Tom's Diner as soon as it opened. He ordered coffees and breakfast specials to go.<p>

"So, Sam...are you going to relax today?" she asked, handing him his order.

He nodded. "As long as Dean lets us. He's a bit of a slave-driver, wants to wring everything out of a holiday that he can, regardless." He wanted to deflect a bit of the blame; so far he'd had to weather the disapproval of not one, but two older women regarding Dean's state of health, as if he had any bloody control over it. He was a bit tired of people assuming he was driving the _poor thing_ too hard. It was an irony if ever there was one.

She patted his arm as he left. "Oh I know how it is, dear. Old Tom, there, he has the whip cracking from dusk to dawn! I can barely catch my breath!"

Tom looked up and spluttered as she grinned and winked. Sam didn't quite know what to say to that one, and he hurried off.

He managed to get in without spilling. It was still quite early, he had no intention of waking sleeping beauty yet; the rest was good for him. Instead he consumed his breakfast, and whiled away the time by locating and mapquesting the drive to Riviere du Loup.

-_shit- _It was a good nine hours, and that included the expensive ferry over the Bay of Fundy. If they avoided that it would add many more hours. He sure hoped they could locate the stone definitively before taking on another grueling road trip. He was _really_ sick of driving.

* * *

><p>By ten, he was itching to go. He decided to wake Dean. It wasn't so hard this time; he was on the verge anyway. Sam reheated his breakfast and coffee. Dean remained wordless until at least half the caffeine had entered his system. He sat and cupped the mug, drawing every ounce of warmth and comfort he could from it. He never was a morning person, even less so when he wasn't 100%.<p>

"Call them yet?" he asked dully.

"Nope. ..Didn't want to get them up out of their beds; that'd be starting off bad. But I did find out about the drive."

"And?"

"Nine hours plus."

"Crap! Call'em."

Sam sighed in discomfort. He really didn't want to disturb these people. But he dialed anyway. A different individual answered this time. Sam identified himself quickly, asking that they hear him out. The young man agreed, hesitantly. "Look…I am sorry to hear of Marc's passing, but this may, uh…well, it may be connected."

The gruff young man paused. "What do you mean?"

Sam drew a breath, glanced at Dean, and waded in. "Ok...please don't hang up... But, can you tell me how Marc died?"

The man was blunt. "He blew his goddamned brains out in his car. Why?"

-_tread softly_- "I'm really sorry, but I have to ask, and it is important. Do you know why?"

The young man swore, but he stayed on the line. "_Why? _Because he was f~cking haunted until he couldn't take any more! His fiancee left him because she thought he'd gone crazy, all he could talk about was-" He couldn't continue.

Sam filled in the blanks in the conversation. "Your buddy, Marc, he saw...something?"

The young man's voice broke. "Who the hell are you?"

"Don't hang up, please!" Sam begged. " We know about the time in Nova Scotia. We know he took a statue home, a lamb. Please; we need to bring it home, before anyone else gets hurt… Please-"

The endless pause got Sam worried that he'd lost him. But the young man came back. He was in tears. "You know, then, about the kid...the crying girl?"

Sam gestured thumbs up to Dean. "Look, my name's Sam. I know a lot of stuff. I know Marc found the stone lamb and took it away. It was important here, the same way it's important there, you understand?"

He took some time to gather himself. "What do you want?"

"We have to return the lamb to where it came from. I know this is all a bunch of weird, scary shit, but please; you already know how it feels to lose someone because of this. Help us fix it so nobody else feels the same…ok?"

The pauses on the other line were nerve-wracking. Sam wasn't sure how this would play.

"Marc was my older brother. I'm Rheal. I was there that week, too. We had a blast, you know? We rented the cottage, Marc just got engaged—we were gonna celebrate. Everybody; Madelaine, us, his friends... At the end, when we were packing up, Marc remembered that statue in the garden. Madelaine said she liked it, so he got it for her. It was all green and mossy; he thought nobody would miss it, you know? So he dug it out and put it in the trunk." The young man had to take a moment again. "Marc...he started seeing shit right after…said there was a girl; she was always crying...skin white, dress white. She stood in front of him, holding her out arms and crying her eyes out, twenty four hours a day, you know? Drove him f~cking nuts!"

"A girl? He saw a girl? Like maybe five or six years old?"

"Mon dieu! Yeah, a little kid; all white, crying all the time. He said he saw it if his eyes were closed or open, and he couldn't take it any more..."

Sam was floored. He was right, Hannah was only half the issue. Emeline was here too, and it seemed she was as distraught as her mother...


	6. Chapter 6

NEXT

Sam gave the poor guy a few minutes before his next question. "Rheal, I know this is hard for you and your family, but I have to stop this from happening to the next person, alright?"

"Yeah."

"Ok, you're a good guy, Rheal. Now, can you tell me where the lamb is?"

The young man thought for a few moments. "Well, I know it's not here, and Marc put all his stuff in storage when he and Madelaine broke up and he moved back home.

"Rheal, when was that?"

"Uh...maybe three months ago. It's the U-Store-It here, he's had that space for a long time, he kept everything in there that wouldn't fit in his and Maddy's apartment. I could probably get the key from the guy, I've never been to it."

"That's good. But Rheal, I have to ask you a favour. I'm at least nine hours of driving away…Do you think you could check that storage unit for me? If the lamb is there, we can come out to get it, and you can at least know that what happened to Marc won't ever happen again."

The young man agreed. He and Sam exchanged cell numbers and arranged to speak again later.

* * *

><p>"So?" Dean demanded. It came out a little rough, and he cleared his throat several times. Sam had noticed he'd been doing that all morning, but he knew that the doctor had said he should keep clearing out the results of the bleed.<p>

Sam turned to him, eyeing him quietly for a moment, and sat down to collect his thoughts. "Well; the guy shot himself. His younger brother said he started seeing a crying girl; small, pale, wearing a white dress...and apparently it was non-stop, and he saw her whether he was sleeping or awake. The brother, Rheal; said that they were all worried about his sanity, and that it broke up Marc's engagement. In the end, he couldn't take it anymore-seeing the image of this distraught kid all the time, with everyone around him thinking he was nuts."

"Whoa…so, the daughter, you think? Man, I guess that sucked. Where's the lamb now?"

"Rheal thought maybe in a rental storage unit, he's going to go look into it and call back."

"Ok, good. That's a start, and we don't have to drive all the way out there without knowing if it's there or not."

Sam murmured his agreement, distracted. He was still watching his brother. Dean was pale this morning, Sam thought his eyes were glassy, and he was breathing a little rapidly. He sat hunched like an old man, hugging his coffee mug. He wanted to see if Dean was running a fever, but he knew he'd never get away with touching his forehead again.

"What, Sam? what _now_?" Dean rolled his eyes and griped.

"What was your doctor's name at Valley Regional?"

"Dr. Nunnoyerfreakinbiznis. Why?"

"Because you're a moron who can't learn from experience. You can't tell me you're feeling better; I can see for myself you're getting worse. Gimme his name."

Dean swore and leaned back against the headboard. He had been trying to ignore the increased heaviness in his chest, and what it probably meant. He knew from experience that he was running hot. He'd been told to breathe deeply, but dammit, it hurt like hell to do that. He was tired, he just wanted it all to go away. "..MacDonald." he sighed.

Sam dialed the hospital, turning to Dean as he waited. "You're an idiot, you know that?"

"That's the general theory." he said miserably, huddling back down under the blanket.

Sam got lucky, he didn't have to have him paged. He stepped into the other room so Dean couldn't hear. "Dr. MacDonald? It's Sam Win...Edwards; you had my brother Mike in, a couple of days ago, with a broken rib?"

"Oh yes, the AWOL American."

"Yeah, that's him. Um, sir, I think we may have a problem here. He wouldn't admit it but I'm pretty sure he could be getting sick. I don't know if it's pneumonia or anything, but he's pale, and he sounds sorta wheezy. I know he left owing the hospital for that stay, and I'm really sorry about that. That's why he left early, because he couldn't cover the cost…but-"

"Sam, your brother did leave payment. I'm glad you called, I wanted to talk to him about it. But regardless; where is he now?"

"We're at Helen's Cabins in Annapolis."

"Is he running a temp?"

"I think so. He looks like it. I think it's just starting, it really was only obvious this morning."

The doctor checked his watch, and thought for a moment. "Ok...I can spare a bit of time this morning. You're damned lucky you caught me before my schedule filled up. I'll be out in an hour. I'll need directions."

Sam relayed them along with his thanks. Dean feigned sleep. The last thing he wanted was a lecture, especially if he deserved it.

Sam sat down. "When you fake-wake-up, I wouldn't mind hearing about how you paid for your hospital stay, Dean. The doctor said you did, and he wants to talk to you about it."

Dean responded be snoring really loudly.

-_fine.-_Sam thought, irritated. He flipped open his laptop and played mahjong, watching Dean clandestinely while he waited..

* * *

><p>Right on time, a knock at the door announced the doc's arrival. Sam opened the door, but instead, he was met by Helen. She bustled in and handed him a box of fresh banana muffins. "How's the patient?" she asked, leaning over him.<p>

"Sick. He has a doctor coming this morning." He knew Dean would hate him divulging that.

"Oh dear. So one of those buggers is coming now to fix it, eh? I knew they sent him home too early!" she frowned.

"No, Helen, the truth is-"

He didn't have the chance to finish, as Dr. MacDonald was now at the door. Helen opened it and set upon him like a jack russell terrier on a rat. "You bloody bureaucrats!" she wagged her finger accusingly. "While you're busy shoving more sick folk back out the door to save a few pennies, they're dropping like flies in their own beds! And that poor boy on his vacation, no less! You should be ashamed, I tell you!"

The poor doc was taken aback by his less-than-warm welcome. He was lucky she didn't have a wooden spoon in her hand; she'd have more than likely whacked him with it. Sam clarified, apologizing. "Helen, Dean left the hospital early on his own, he wasn't discharged. He's pretending to be asleep right now so he won't get in trouble with you. Dr. MacDonald is doing us a huge favour by coming out and checking on him."

"Oh...well, that's different, then." she said, flustered. "I'll leave the good man to his work then. ...And you, there-" she directed at Dean, "You'll have me to answer to when you're feeling better. I hope you get a nice big needle in your arse!" She left the two men standing, trying to hide their smirks.

Dean got up on an elbow, as there was no point in faking anymore.

"Hello again, Mike." Dr. Mac greeted wryly. "I hear you don't feel well." He asked questions, took his vitals, listened to his chest, and checked that his previous efforts were healing satisfactorily. Dean sat for the most part in silence, fuming at being made a spectacle. Finally the doc sat back, crossing his arms.

"Well, for starters, you know you're an idiot, right?"

"Yeah, so I've been told."

"Ok. Well, you have a fever, and from your chest sounds I'd say you are starting something. I could haul you back in; I don't think your brother would protest. But I think you'll be ok here, if we nip this early. I'm leaving you with an antibiotic; follow the instructions, and make sure you finish the bottle, no matter how quickly you feel better. I'm going to give you a shot to start it off. Don't panic, it's in your arm."

"Aw Doc, Helen will be so disappointed." Sam chimed in.

"Shut-up, Sam." Dean scowled.

When Dr. Mac was finished, he sat down and looked longingly at the muffins. Sam offered him the box, and the three of them made short work of her efforts.

"So Mike...I wasn't aware that you were a bona-fide pirate." The doc pulled out a crumpled envelope with his name scrawled on it, and shook the contents into his palm. An ancient Spanish gold coin slipped out. It was Dean's last one. "Where on earth did you get this?" he asked, examining it with fascination.

"They were given to me, in Florida, a while ago. I used to have a few of them, they were all together in an old leather bag. Pretty cool, really. That's the last one. Don't worry, it's not hot or anything; you can sell it legally. It's worth at least $1500."

Dr. Mac flipped it back and forth in his fingers. "Mike, as I told your brother, we'd have figured out the payment thing. We would never deny someone care for lack of funds, we don't do that here. You should've stayed put at least a day or two more."

Dean shrugged and looked down.

The doc continued. "This coin...it's not a sentimental thing for you, is it, Mike?"

Dean looked away. It _was_, of course. It had been a parting gift from the ghostly Ada. But he'd thought about the care he'd received when he was hurt, how the doc insisted he'd have gotten it regardless. He liked the people here, they'd all been so open, kind, and welcoming. Everyone so far had been willing to sacrifice on their behalf, even though they were strangers. He didn't think he could afford that kind of sentimentality under the circumstances. And the pathetic reality was; he had absolutely nothing else of any value to offer.

"No."

Dr. MacDonald looked to Sam, who raised his eyebrows slightly. He smiled to himself and flipped the coin back to Dean. "Keep it. We have a fund that covers the odd, un-insured case. Hospital admin. is all about bureaucracy, Mike; everything has to fit the forms, and there's no protocol for handling old spanish gold as payment. It'll just screw up the bean-counters in accounting." he grinned.

Dean closed his hand over the coin. "Well, thanks..." he said, returning the smile a little uncertainly. "Uh, I should also tell you…my real name's Dean."

"Yeah, I know." the doctor smirked. "You'd be surprised at what people tell me as the anesthetic hits'em. I could write a book."

That was a bit of a shock for Dean. It had never occurred to him that he would reveal sensitive information while drugged. The look on his face must have spoken volumes; Dr. Mac reassured him that he'd revealed nothing else particularly incriminating.

"Well, Sam and Dean Edwards...I do actually have a job to go to. I repeat, take ALL the antibiotics, and don't hesitate to call in case of any questions or problems. Oh, and just so you know; my house-call rate is two doubloons per hour!" He left, laughing to himself.

"Funny guy." Dean snorted.

"_Good_ guy." Sam corrected. He picked up the pill bottle and read the instructions. "Ok, you're due one of these horse-pills at around four. Do you want to crash for a while?"

"Uh huh." he said, shivering and pulling the blankets up around his face. He was relieved that it was handled now, but he still felt sore and sick. Sam left, pulled one of his blankets off his own bed and returned, adding it to Dean's.

* * *

><p>With that little potential problem now dealt with, Sam was in a holding pattern until he heard from Rheal Grenier. Dean would probably snooze for a few hours... Sam could sit and wait, watching the clock, or go out. He decided to go visit Edith and let her know they had a lead on the lamb.<p>

The weather had turned from the idyllic warmth of the past few days to blustery and cool. Trails of leaves chased across the road in snaking patterns. Sam could see the water of the Annapolis basin as he drove. It looked steely grey, and restless. He pulled into Edith's lane, stepped out into the wind and knocked. She was pleased to see him, ushering him into the parlour again with the usual offer of tea. He declined this time, he didn't want to stay away too long.

"And how is your brother, Sam-?" she asked with concern.

"He's mending. He's taking a rest day today, so it's just me. I just stopped by to let you know we have a lead on the lamb, so don't let Dwight jump the gun and do anything rash with the house." He didn't tell her that the last renter was dead; no point in alarming her.

"Oh, Dwight will be pleased to hear that. I know he felt awful having kept that from me. He's always protecting me, dear soul. You should pop in on him, he was taking a bush-hog to the long grass behind the Rose cottage. Are you sure you wouldn't like some tea?"

"No thanks, Edith. I think I will say hi to him on the way out, and I don't want to leave Dean too long."

"Och, poor thing…Is he still unwell? What's wrong with him, then?"

Sam glossed over it. "Just bruises... he's a little stiff and sore. He'll be fine, Edith. I'll keep in touch when I know more. You take care." He waved and left, with his stomach growling from the delicious scent of whatever she had cooking. He'd bet it was good and hearty. Tom and Helen were sweethearts, but his pizza was pretty awful and the rest of the menu not a whole lot better. He pulled over when he heard his cell. It was Rheal, and the poor kid was spitting with fury. Sam heard him out, wrote down the information, and promised to let him know anything. He thanked him again, and hung up, following it with a curse of his own.

-_another big fat fly in the ointment_.- He frowned in thought. Rheal had gone to the storage office, only to learn that the contents of his brother's unit had just been auctioned off. It seemed payment was several months in arrears, and they'd sent letter after letter with no answer. Most storage companies did that if they had delinquent clients and no way to contact them. Marc Grenier had left only his phone number from the previous apartment, which he'd moved out of when his engagement failed, and they didn't have his current contacts. They'd really jumped the gun on it; usually there was a six month grace, but apparently they needed the unit. Poor Rheal was beside himself, and he warned Sam that he'd had words with the manager, and couldn't deal with the guy anymore himself for fear he'd end up beating the snot out of him. He passed the name and number on to Sam. Now their only hope to find the statue was through a hostile party, if there even were records available of who bought what at the auction.

* * *

><p>Sam pulled up in front of the Rose Cottage. -–<em>more like the dead-stick cottage<em>—he thought. He could hear Dwight's tractor idling behind the house. He went around, finding him picking bricks out of the grass beside the wall.

Dwight greeted him amiably. "Wind's playing havoc with the old chimney." he explained. "Lost a lot of bricks this morning...if I don't get'em out of the grass it'll bugger the blade. So...what's up, then?"

"I just stopped by your Aunt's to say we had a clear lead on the lamb, but then I just got a call two minutes ago, and the trail got murky again. But I do think we can solve this, Dwight, so don't pull it down just yet, ok?"

Dwight laughed wryly. "Oh, well, Aunt Edith would have my head on a platter if I went ahead and did that. No, we'll give you boys a chance to figure it out. As long as it stays secure, nobody will get hurt." He leaned against the wall, buttoning his coat against the increasing wind, which was gusting pretty hard. "Now how's that brother of yours doing, by the way? Geez I felt some bad when I knocked him down like that. ...And him saving my skin by not telling Edith, that's a good lad if ever there was one. You tell him I owe him one."

"He's mending, Dwight, and your knocking him wasn't any real problem. I've gotta get back soon, he's asleep at the moment. You want a quick hand with these bricks?"

"Oh no, don't bother-" Dwight stopped and caught Sam's eye. A sound could be heard from within the house. The pictures were rattling again, but there was more; it sounded like a rising wail.

"We'd better move!" Sam started to warn. Before he could finish, the rest of the remaining chimney gave way, showering both men with a hail of bricks and dust.


	7. Chapter 7

NEXT

Dean awoke to banging on the door. He'd called to Sam to get it, without success, and finally he hauled himself painfully out of bed and answered it.

It was Helen. He blinked away his head-rush, bit back his annoyance and smiled wanly at her. She frowned in return.

"Well, I see you're up, then. You know; you're a foolish child, and you'd do well to listen to older, wiser people than yourself!"

He stopped her mid-lecture. He was not feeling patient, despite his guilt. "Helen, are you here for the lecture or did you want something?"

She tsked. "Edith McDiarmid called here, looking for your brother. You might want to call her back; she was a bit worried. Here's her number." With that she turned and left.

Dean checked his watch. It was past four. He wondered where the hell Sam was; he hadn't planned to sleep so long, and Sam had made a point of noting that he was to take his next pill at four o'clock. He did that, suddenly nervous. He knew Sam was channeling Florence Nightingale at the moment, so it was odd that he'd be away for so long. He looked out the window. Nothing about the weather encouraged him to stay up and get dressed, but he did it anyway. He wished he knew when Sam had stepped out; this could all be for nothing. But he had the sinking feeling that it wasn't. Once warmly outfitted, he gave Edith a call.

* * *

><p>"Oh, I'm so glad you called..." she quavered. "Is Sam there?"<p>

"No ma'am. I haven't seen him for hours, but I was asleep for most of the afternoon."

"Oh dear. Dean, he was here earlier; he wouldn't stay for tea because he was fretting about you, but he was going to drop by and speak to Dwight at the Rose cottage on the way home. I was expecting Dwight here for lunch a few hours ago, and he still hasn't come. I'm sure you think I'm being silly, but Dwight is very punctual, especially when it comes to mealtimes."

"Sam went to that house?" Dean asked, his worry thrown into overdrive.

"Yes, that's right. I told him Dwight was outside there, cutting the back lawn. I would go check on them myself, since it's just down the road; but the weather has turned so nasty, and there's not much to me these days. I'm afraid I'd be blown to Oz, for heaven's sake!"

He closed his eyes for a moment. "Edith, you're smart to stay in...leave it to me. I'll go check on things."

"Oh, but dear...you're not well...are you sure? I can call the fire department or something, I'm sure they'd come out to check."

"No...no, it's ok, Edith. I don't mind. Just give me a few minutes, I'll be-" But he realized the major flaw in the plan. Sam had the Impala, he was stranded.

"Dear..?"

"Sorry Edith, just realized I'm without my car. I'll call a cab. Stay indoors, alright?"

"A taxi? Oh my, so expensive...are you sure?"

"Yeah. Thanks for calling, you did the right thing. I'll keep in touch."

He called Tom next. "Tom, I need the number for your local cab service."

Tom could hear the urgency in Dean's voice. "Something wrong? You need some wheels?"

"Yeah, actually. Edith McDiarmid is panicking because her nephew, and my brother, are way overdue. But Sam has my car."

"Look, come by the diner; I'll give you the keys to my truck, never mind a cab. But, buddy...are you up to this? Helen said you were sick, and it's blowing like hell out there!"

"I'm fine, Tom. I'll be over in a minute."

Dean had thrown on an extra layer and headed over to the diner.

"You're sure, now? I can give you a lift." Tom said.

"Tom, I don't want to pull you away from your business, and I'm only going up to the Rose cottage...thanks anyway."

Helen called from the back. "Tell that fool with you there to be careful; he has no common sense at all!"

Both men looked at each other apologetically.

"It's gonna get foul out there this evening. Bit of a gale coming in, nothing unusual. It's a lovely place here, but when the weather gets contrary you know about it pretty quick."

* * *

><p>He called Sam's cell for the twentieth time, still no answer. Dean had the wipers flying; the rain had begun to lash with a fury. He shivered, waiting for the truck interior to heat up. It still hadn't by the time he'd reached the Rose cottage.<p>

The front door was still locked. He pulled his coat tighter around his ears and walked around. The tractor was there, still running, nearly on empty. Dean squinted against the wind and walked over to it. He shut it down, and searched around it, finding nothing. Gusts of wind made the feathery, overgrown grass ripple like a lion's mane. He walked slowly through it, scanning the ground.

"Sam!" he called over the wind, listening intently for an answer. He called again, but it caused him a fit of coughing that left him watery-eyed with pain, and he heard nothing. But the third time, he was sure there was a faint reply. It sounded like it came from near the house, and he loped back toward it, calling again.

"Over here, Dean!"

He heard that, and made his way to its origin. There was a pile of bricks and splintered wood, as he neared it he could see that the trapdoors of some sort of root cellar had been broken through beside the house wall. He crouched and peered down into the dark space. Two figures sat, or lay, at the bottom, half obscured by a jumble of debris. It was Sam, and Dwight.

"Sam! Jesus, are you ok?"

"Sorta. I'm not sure about Dwight, though."

"Is there a door to that space in the basement?"

"Yeah, but don't come in, Dean. Hannah's freaking out; she won't let me enter the house from here. Trust me, I tried."

Dean looked around, frantically. _Rope_—he needed rope, and he knew he had some in his car trunk. "Sam, toss me the keys to my car!"

Sam rooted through his pockets and did so. Dean ran back to the Impala and searched the trunk. There were some lengths of mismatched rope there, he grabbed them and returned to the root cellar. He tied the sections together until he had enough.

"Can you grab this?" he asked, dropping an end down.

Sam reached for it with a groan. But he managed to nab it. "Ok, pull up."

-_Pull up-sure, no problem- _Dean did his best to do that. He was severely limited; this was something he needed to throw his back into, which was a considerable hardship at that moment. Sam hauled himself, arm over arm, at the same time, until his head cleared the splintered doorframe and he could gain purchase. He scrambled over the edge, sitting beside Dean to catch his breath. Dean sat huddled against the rain and wind, grimacing against the pain he'd aggravated. But in a moment or two he shrugged it off. "What the hell happened here?"

Sam huddled beside him. "Chimney gave way while Dwight and I were talking...it knocked us into the old root cellar, or whatever that is."

"You hurt?"

"Nothing lethal, probably a goose-egg, and my wrist." He rubbed the offending limb, guessing he'd sprained it.

"What about Dwight?"

"Better call 911." Sam answered, peering back down at the still form. "He's breathing alright, but out cold. I'm not sure if he broke anything in the fall."

"Where's your phone?"

Sam shook his head. "I lost it when I fell, it should be in the grass here."

Dean called called for help for Dwight, then called Sam's cell, and they could hear the ring from nearby in the wet lawn. Sam retrieved it. They kept vigil by the cellar edge until they could hear the siren. Dean had looked Sam over as well as he could in the wind and pelting rain. He had an impressive bump on his crown, but he insisted he didn't feel anything more worthy of note than a headache, and the aching wrist. When the fire department arrived, both brothers watched as Dwight was pulled from the cellar and loaded into the ambulance to be transported to Kentville. Sam had offered to inform Edith. The brothers wearily got into their respective vehicles and headed to her home. Dean stayed behind in the truck as Sam spoke to her. He rested his head momentarily, against the steering wheel. The cold and wet felt like they cut right to his bones, and his rib screamed in protest to his activity. He blasted the heat, willing it to warm the damp and chilly interior.

* * *

><p>"Dean…Dean, hey- " Sam shook him awake. "Edith's in the car; I'm gonna drive her to the hospital. Maybe you should come with me. You can leave the truck here, I'm ok to drive."<p>

Dean shook the cobwebs loose. He was shaking with chill, and really didn't feel like driving the cold truck at the moment, "Yeah...makes sense."

Sam nodded and went back to the car as Dean backed up and waited while the Impala got out. They drove through the rain until the Valley Regional sign loomed ahead.

Dr. Mac was again on duty. "What, not another Yank?'' he lamented as Dwight was wheeled in.

"Not this time, Doc. As far as I know he's a card-carrying Canadian." Sam assured.

"Good." he said. He spied Dean, and strode toward him. "What the hell are _you_ doing out of bed?"

Dean shrugged as he shuddered with the cold. "Not my choice, believe me; but somebody had to rescue their sorry asses."

Edith was busy with admittance, providing the necessary info for Dwight. She looked particularly slight and frail under the harsh fluorescent light, her worry etched deeply on her creased face. Sam pulled a blanket off a gurney and tucked it over her shoulders. He returned to where Dean sat, glancing toward the doc. Dr. Mac had taken Dean's temp and was scolding him. Dean was beginning to sound like a sea-lion again, it scared Sam to hear that.

"Look, jackass; if I have to strap you to a gurney for the next three days to keep you from getting into trouble, I will!" he threatened. "And _you_, Sam; did you not understand when I said he needed to rest?"

Both Sam and Dean shifted uncomfortably. "We got it." Dean replied gruffly.

"Well good. Now take these-" he handed a new bottle to Sam. "Throw out those other meds; these are stronger. After your adventures out there, I suspect you're going to need something more to get rid of your infection. Oh, and lay off any booze in the meantime." He turned and left; there were many more pressing cases waiting.

* * *

><p>"How's the head?" Dean asked, his voice rough after the harsh wind. He was soaked through, shivering so violently that it interfered with his speech. He reached out and parted Sam's hair to get a look at the damage. The bump was abraded and bloody, but nothing stitch-worthy.<p>

Sam gently pushed his hand away. "It's ok, Dean. The wrist too…just feels a bit jammed." he assured. "You're the one who we should be worried about. Let's get you back to some warmth."

Dean nodded wearily. He was past arguing. Sam went to Edith, explaining that he had to get his brother home.

"Of course, dear. I'm fine here, I'll just stay until poor Dwight gets checked over. Don't worry, get him to bed." she said. The nurse assured him that they'd take good care of her.

"Call us at Helen's as soon as you know anything, alright? I'll come out and drive you when you're ready."

She smiled and patted his hand. "Thank you, dear, I will."

He led Dean out to the car. It was a quiet ride back. Sam figured he'd tell Dean about the latest developments regarding the stone lamb in the morning. He was infinitely grateful to Dr. Mac for checking Dean. He really looked like he was having a rough time.

* * *

><p>Once back at Helen's, Sam got his brother dried off and tucked in. He stepped out to let Tom know where his truck was, assuring him that they'd pick it up in the morning. And at last, he could tend to himself. He had a blasting hot shower, checked to make sure that he wasn't lying regarding his head wound, and swallowed some aspirin to combat his spitting headache. He dressed again. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep, as Dean had done, but he had promised Edith he would get her home.<p>

A while later, she did call. She'd decided to take a room in town in Kentville, so she didn't need a lift tonight. Sam kicked off his shoes, didn't bother to change, and snuggled down under his covers.

Sam lay awake for some time. He couldn't decide if the collapse of the chimney was

* * *

><p>a natural occurrence, or something brought about by the angry Hannah. After all, the winds were brutal all day; and Dwight was already picking bricks that had been blown loose earlier. The masonry structure was old and unstable... But if she had begun to wreak her particular brand of havoc outside the parameters of her earlier activities, then the situation was deteriorating and becoming increasingly dangerous. They could very well have to salt and burn before they had the chance to reunite the two spirits. Sam hated that thought, knowing now that there was a lost and lonely spirit of a child displaced by all of this. If Hannah were to be released from the tether that held her here, what would become of poor Emeline? Her own grave was smack in the middle of town, in a place that saw regular nightly tours and visitors. They'd hardly be able to dig her up and torch her in public.<p>

He didn't feel that the little girl's spirit was responsible for Marc's death directly; it didn't smack of malice...only fear and loneliness, just like any kid lost in a mall, frightened and waiting for the comforting presence of the parent to return. It was Marc's reaction to the vision that ended in tragedy; maybe others might not have been so fragile. -_God_, he wanted to fix this…He wasn't sure why it felt so close…so personal. But he guessed it had something to do with their own childhood. He didn't really remember his own mother, but he knew that Dean did, and her loss was a terrible thing for a little kid to overcome, and their dad was hardly a comfort. It had shaped them both, and he couldn't ever fix that for Dean, as much as he wanted to. But he could damn well try to fix it for Emeline and her mother.

He glanced through the doorway at Dean at regular intervals. He was sleeping fretfully, moaning occasionally, his shallow breathing sounding laboured. No wonder, after taxing his strength in the bitter weather this afternoon. He hoped the newest meds would kick in soon. They were as just about as big as olives, he felt sorry for him. And he worried too for Dwight. All the poor guy had ever done was show loyalty and care for his aging aunt, working to help her maintain her independence. He deserved better treatment from the fates. He hoped he heard good news rather than bad in the morning.

* * *

><p>That morning arrived too damn early. Sam reluctantly hauled his bruised and stiff frame out of bed, got the coffee started and dressed himself slowly. The bricks, and the fall, had done their damage, but nothing a good breakfast and some movement wouldn't help. He did the usual food-run to Tom's, bringing back a couple of specials. When he returned, he was surprised to find Dean up and showering. He would have bet that he'd have slept 'til noon if he weren't disturbed.<p>

"How are you doing?" he asked as Dean emerged, clean and refreshed.

"Ok." he lied. He looked a little better than he did last night, but his voice was rough, and his eyes lacked their usual sparkle. Sam handed him a good, hot coffee.

"Hear anything about Dwight yet?" Dean asked.

"Not yet. Edith stayed in Kentville; I'll call the hospital in a little while. Got some news about the lamb, though."

"Oh yeah?"

"It seems it was in the storage unit, but all the contents were auctioned off recently because of unpaid fees. The brother, Rheal; argued with the manager about it. The kid was flipping out, actually; but he gave me the guy's name and number. So he'll more than likely be a hostile contact."

"Mmm. Better go in as authority right off the bat. What're the cops called around there?"

"Probably RCMP; you know, mounties. They're federal, I don't know if there's a provincial force. Anyway, an RCMP officer ought to carry weight."

Dean nodded. Sam handed the breakfast to him along with his scheduled pill. Dean grimaced when he saw it. "Sure that's not something else? It's freaking huge!"

Sam snorted. "You're on your own if it is, dude."

Dean choked it down as Sam found the storage place number and called it. He asked for the name Rheal had given. "Andre Deschamps?"

"Oui?"

"Sir, this is Constable Winchester of the Halifax RCMP. We have a few questions regarding a stolen item; a stone carving. We understand it was stored in one of your units until recently, when it was sold at auction by your company."

He held the phone away as the man launched into a shouting diatribe. Sam had to cut him short.

"Yes sir, I understand your position. However, the item was stolen property. I'm sure you won't mind cooperating with us in this matter."

The man changed his tone, not wanting trouble.

Officer Sam continued. "We'll need any records pertaining to that item, sir. I'd appreciate if you could fax a copy of the bill of sale, and any information pertaining to the purchaser."

Dean watched as Sam uh-huh'ed a few times, thanked him and hung up. "So...any luck?"

"He's tracking the names down. I gave him the fax from Tom's Diner."

"Good."

Sam sat down. He needed to discuss the previous day. "Dean, that chimney collapse...it could easily have been just a freak thing. When I got there, Dwight was collecting bricks that had been blown down by that storm. The thing was gonna come down sooner or later…but unfortunately, we heard the paintings rattling, and a sort of...wailing sound, right before. I'm not sure what to think."

"Are you asking me if I think it was caused by her? And if it was, she's stepping it up, isn't she?"

"Yeah, maybe."

"So this is getting more dangerous."

Sam nodded.

"Crap." Dean ran his hand through his short hair. "Sam, I wanted to do this differently as much as you did, but maybe we should just get on with it; salt & burn Hannah. You saw the situation in the Annapolis cemetery, how public is Emeline's grave? Any chance we could exhume her without getting arrested?"

"What are you thinking then, burn the two together here, at the rose cottage?" Sam asked. He was surprised at Dean's sensitivity in this one, he rarely allowed himself to consider the spirit's feelings...he usually just drove ahead and did what he felt needed doing. And he was usually right; there wasn't much to be gained by keeping a confused spirit clinging to a world they were no longer a part of.

"If it comes down to it, yeah; I'd feel better if we could…I dunno, release them together at the same time."

"Hmm. Well, we have this lead on the lamb; if it doesn't pan out, we can try to figure out how to dig up Emeline without making the local paper."

"Okay." Dean agreed.

* * *

><p>A short time later, Helen dropped by with news. "Edith's at the hospital, she wants to talk to you, Sam. Go ahead to the diner, she's still on the line."<p>

Sam hurried over.

Helen turned to Dean. "I hear you were a bit of a hero yesterday."

He shrugged. "Just found'em and got'em out. It was nothing." He coughed, wincing as he did so.

Helen softened her stance. "You poor thing. Here I was thinking it was you giving your brother white hair, when all the while it's the other way round. And Edith thinks you're a gilded saint for looking out for her Dwight. Poor old thing, he's all the family she has." She enveloped him an a big, bosomy hug. Trapped, Dean smiled uncomfortably, wishing Sam would hurry the hell up and rescue him.

Sam jogged back, caught Dean's eye and grinned, giving him a thumbs up. Helen released him and admonished Sam. "Now _you_, young Sam; smarten up and look after your poor brother properly. No more nonsense, or you'll answer to me!"

"Yes ma'am."

"Good boy." With that she returned to the diner.

Dean smiled smugly.

* * *

><p>Sam filled him in. "Well, good news about Dwight. He's got a broken ankle, and a concussion, but other than that he'll be out this afternoon. I told Edith we'd be out around five to pick them up."<p>

"Well that's at least something positive, coulda been worse. So I guess we wait until we get the fax. I'm going back to bed."

"Good plan...when do you want to get up again?"

"I don't know; in an hour or so." he yawned.

"Alright. I'll go warn Tom that there could be fax, and then maybe I'll go into Annapolis and scope out Emeline's gravesite. Might as well be prepared, in case we have to.."

"Yeah, ok...and Sam- " Dean looked up at him wearily, "Be careful, for shit's sake. I'm too sore to save your ass again today."


	8. Chapter 8

NEXT

He was sore; more than he cared to admit. Rib fractures were always hard; you couldn't do anything, even breathe, without it letting you know it was there. He'd done so much damage to himself on so many occasions, but it never seemed to offer any immunity to pain each subsequent time. This was no exception. He knew he'd been too active, Sam wasn't quite right when he said he couldn't learn from his experiences. It was just that he couldn't afford to change how he dealt with his world at the moment. He didn't have the luxury of sitting back and reflecting on life when it was busy kicking him in the nads. He hoped they would find a good solid lead on the lamb. The last thing he wanted to do was burn the midnight oil with a shovel in his hand, or have to run for his continued freedom from the authorities when they objected to being saved from what they didn't understand. _But_—he thought, resigned to whatever came about; he was ready as always to do what the rest of the blissfully ignorant populace would never even have to dream about. After all, it's what they did. He checked his watch—_elevenish_. Keeping his cell close, he downed another of David's painkillers and closed his eyes for a while.

* * *

><p>Sam just summarized with a shrug. "Long story." he said as he explained to Tom that a fax for the RCMP was expected. Tom didn't ask, he just looked at his guest with a slight and quizzical smile. Sam continued on as he'd planned. The weather was still rough; no Indian Summer skies today, just more of the same roiling, leaden cloud cover that yesterday had offered. He'd have felt depressed, except every second laneway had seasonal produce for sale, and he'd stopped and bought a big basket of courtlands and he was filling himself on the delicious apples. He promised himself he'd save a few for Dean, although he knew it would be a battle to get him to eat them. Maybe if he deep-fried them…<p>

He turned off into town. After passing a few commercial buildings he saw the old graveyard ahead. He parked and walked. The Anglican burial ground was very central, and very ancient. The tours were winding down now, thank god. The season was almost over and they'd be rolling up the sidewalks in Annapolis soon. That would be good for them if they had to do anything with Emeline's plot. He walked through, finding the remembered location. He frowned, realizing it was just too damn close to the view from the road. Granted, they'd be doing this late at night, but here they'd invariably attract some sort of unwanted attention. They'd be better off hiding in plain sight. He remembered the genealogical info he'd retrieved...the child had succumbed to yellow fever. That could be an angle to pursue; if they claimed to be from some government health dept., they could say they needed to exhume her for research purposes, like analysis of old disease victims. It'd be better than trying to explain why they were there in the wee hours digging, should they get caught. He had seen what he needed to; he decided to pick up some lunch for the two of them, since Tom's menu was getting a little tired.

Munching on a donut, he headed back. Before reaching Helen's cottages, he was eclipsed by a flying fire truck, followed by another. They turned off onto the Granville Road. He hoped it wasn't anything serious.

* * *

><p>Dean's slumber was quickly interrupted by Tom, bearing a handful of faxes. Freshly and nicely drugged, it took him a few moments to realize what the hell Tom was going on about, winking and referring to the '<em>The Resident Mountie' . <em>But he clued in, and thanked him for bringing it by. Poor Tom clearly longed to be let in the loop, but Dean thanked him again and gently shut the door. He didn't feel like visitors, and this was important. He sat back down on his bed, shivering with the cold air he'd let in, and read the faxes.

The storage manager had been thorough; he'd sent records of the auction for everything sold, just in case any other items would turn out to be hot. But most importantly, he had a name and number for the one who bought the lamb; one Kim Bellwood, of Fredricton, New Brunswick. Dean had to think for a moment about where that province lay, but he remembered they'd passed through it on the way here. –_Good-_he thought, -_this one's even closer_… He didn't feel very sharp at that moment... he'd let Sam do the calling when he got back. Instead, he crawled back under his blankets, and was just about asleep when he had yet another caller.

"##!*&! " he grumbled. -_never gonna get any freaking rest_-

This time Helen poked her head in. "Are you awake, dear?" she asked.

He got up again and sighed. "Yep. What can I do for you, Helen?"

"Oh, Edith was on the line, she wanted to let you and Sam know it was a go for Dwight going home this afternoon, and she just wanted to know if it was still alright, you giving them a lift."

"Yeah, it's no problem." he assured her.

"Well, that's good. My, Poor Dwight was lucky! He could have broken his neck, and then what would poor Edith do, I wonder?"

He shrugged. -_Not his business_. "Has Dwight always done the handy-man thing?" he yawned.

"Oh, heavens no! That's only since he retired after he was widowed. Poor Anne-Marie died of an aneurysm about ten years ago now, so unexpected. Dwight was devastated, you know. He chucked it all, sold his Halifax practice and retired back here. Edith would have been in a home by now if he weren't around, looking after things, bless'im They're both happy enough now, I suppose."

Dean blinked. "Practice?"

"Why yes...Dwight was a highly respected lawyer in Halifax. Goodness, his name was on all the big cases; he was Queen's Counsel for fifteen years. But I guess enough was enough. Why do you ask?"

Dean was duly shocked. "I...I dunno... Guess I just figured he was just a plain old local-boy."

She tsked at him in disapproval. "Now Dean...did your mother never teach you not to judge a book by it's cover? Just because a man chooses simplicity doesn't make him a simpleton. I expect poor Dwight had enough of the ugly side of things. He came back here because he wanted to feel some of the good again."

-_amen to that- _"Huh. Wow, I'll have to ask him about it."

"While you're at it, you can ask Tom about his biochemistry degree too, if you like."

His shock registered deeper. "Tom...was a biochemist?"

"Well of course not!" she snorted. "Good lord, the man can barely cook! I'm just furthering my point, dear." she chuckled. "Nothing is ever simple. Just keep an open mind, swetheart. There are layers to everyone."

She promised to call the hospital and let Edith know not to worry. "And by the way, you; why are you not asleep in your bed? Get back in there or I'll tell young Sam you were being difficult again!" And she left him once again in blessed silence. He rolled his eyes at the irony and did as he was told. And after all the interruptions he might have slept, finally; had it not been for the damned sirens. He grumbled some more and shoved his head under his pillow.

* * *

><p>Sam came in. He put down his things and peered at Dean's still form.<p>

Dean was aware of his entry. "_Not_ freaking sleeping." his muffled and annoyed voice announced.

"Good. I brought you some decent lunch. Did you hear all the sirens?"

Dean sat up with a tired groan. "Yeah. What's going on?"

Sam handed him his food, sitting down with his own. "I don't know yet, but firetrucks were flying down the Granville Rd."

"_Jesus_, really? Hope it's not Edith's, or the cottage!"

"Yeah, I know. I'll go see if Tom knows anything in a minute."

"Don't bother." Dean snorted. "Trust me; he'll come here and tell you. Did you scope out the grave for later?"

"Yeah, too close to the road. But I think if we approach the digging in daylight with a story about us being health dept., looking to research historical outbreaks of yellow fever or something like that, we'd be less likely to have any problems."

Dean thought that made sense. "Mmm... Oh, we got the fax with the buyer's name, here-" He handed it to Sam.

Sam scanned it quickly. "New Brunswick...that's at least better than Quebec. Did you call them yet?"

Dean looked at him with a weary annoyance. "You know; everybody tells me to rest, but nobody wants to let me!"

"Sorry." Sam said, rolling his eyes. "I'll call them."

"Guess what else I learned? Dwight is retired, and you'll never figure out from what."

"And?"

"High-powered lawyer in Halifax."

"What? Are you serious? Good ol' Duh-Wight? Get outa here!"

Dean was about to elaborate, but as predicted, Tom knocked, offering news on the fire. "The old Rose Cottage went up in flames. They're still working on it, that's all I heard so far. Might not want to tell Edith and Dwight just yet, 'til we know more." he said grimly.

"_Aw crap-!" _Dean groaned. "Now what?"

Tom shrugged and his head disappeared again.

"What do you want to do?" Sam asked.

Dean rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up completely. He felt slow, dull...and irritated. "Ugh, I don't know_. Jesus,_ Sam! I guess we should go out there... When are we supposed to go to Kentville?"

"In a couple of hours. But listen, Dean; I don't think you should go out...maybe I should check on it."

"Yeah, Sam; in a perfect…well, a _normal_ world, that'd be a good idea. But I haven't been able to relax since you left anyway, between Helen and Tom and faxes and calls, and freaking _house-fires_... So I might as well get the hell out of this room for a while before I go nuts."

"Ok…" Sam sighed.

They bundled up and headed out to the Rose cottage, or what might be left of it.

* * *

><p>When they pulled near, they could see that the fire fighters were wrapping up. The house still smoldered, but it was intact, with the exception of several windows on the right side. It wasn't a total loss, it seemed.<p>

"Stay out of the cold, ok?" Sam said to his brother, getting out to speak to the fire chief. He introduced himself, explaining why he was interested in a report, as he was about to pick up its owners from Kentville.

"Well...looks electrical. We have extensive smoke damage, but structurally I think it's ok. The kitchen side is a loss, but that thick old plaster kept the damage pretty contained. Should clean up ok."

"So, the power was on?" Sam asked. He knew they'd left the breaker off for safety.

"Yeah, looks like it shorted out in a few places. Could be rodents, chewing on old wiring. We see that occasionally."

Sam wanted to ask a few more questions, but there was a shout from within the house.

"Sir! Got a casualty in here...looks like Peter Lathem. He's dead."

—_Shit_- Sam thought-_Hannah's first kill._ Now they had to re-examine how to approach this. And this was going to draw attention, something that would hamper them. He asked a nearby volunteer who the man was.

"Oh...Pete Lathem is a sort of vagrant in the area. He's been known to hole up in empty sheds and barns around here. Guess he figured he found a nice warm roof over his head here for a while. Got his wish, poor bastard."

The RCMP and coroner were called in. Sam found the chief again, and let him know he'd be going to Kentville shortly and bringing the owners back. He left the number of the diner as a contact. Returning to the car, he found Dean asleep. He carefully got in, not wanting to wake him-, especially after hearing of his lack of a restful morning, and knowing he needed it desperately. He decided to just stay on the road to Kentville, taking his time. As he drove, he thought about all the recent developments. They had, once again it seemed; a solid lead on the lamb. He'd have been content to wait until they knew whether that would pan out before deciding whether to salt & burn or not. But this newest unfortunate happening changed everything, and he knew Dean would agree. The man who died; and they still didn't know all the details of that; had presumably turned on the power, and the house had partially burned as a result of a short. Sam knew there was more to that; faulty wiring was not the issue. Hannah was officially a serious danger now, and they couldn't let her risk anyone else anymore.

He drove on, frowning in thought. Dean snorked himself awake. Confused for a moment, he looked around, bleary and dry-mouthed. Sam reassured him, letting him know where they were, and pulling into a drive-through for some coffee. As they parked and consumed it, he brought his shivering brother up to speed regarding the Rose cottage.

"—_christ_- Well that's it then, don't you think? We gotta toast her now; never mind the lamb. We can still try to bring Emeline's remains there later, and do the same."

Sam nodded unhappily. "Yeah. I'm with you. We're going to have to wait until things cool down there though; there will be cops all over for a few days while they figure out about the dead guy. But after that, we should get on it. God...I don't know what the hell to tell Edith and Dwight."

"They probably heard it on the news already…poor old biddy's gonna have a heart attack if she didn't already. At least it wasn't totaled, though. They could still fix it after it's safe."

Sam murmured a non-commital reply.

They drove into the parking lot of the hospital. Sam took a deep breath. "Well, here we go.

* * *

><p>Predictably, Edith and Dwight were in shock at the news. The fire was one thing, but the idea that someone had met his end in the house was a concept that Edith, particularly, had great difficulty accepting. Horror didn't cover it, and she wept quietly the entire drive home. Once back in her home, they put her to bed. Dwight bid the brothers to sit while he dug out a secreted bottle of whiskey, pouring some healthy shots.<p>

"Well, boys...I think we have a problem." he said quietly. "But before I start, I want to thank you, Dean. I understand you were the one there to rescue us from our little mishap." He took a swallow from his glass, swirling it around as he thought.

"That was nothing, Dwight."

"No. No, it wasn't. I know you're still hurt… And _you _Sam, I appreciate everything you've done for Edith and for me. I guess you both have figured out the problem with the house, and done everything you could about that statue. But I'm at the point of finishing the place off now. It's just too damned dangerous...do you agree?"

Dean sat back, holding his glass untouched. He really would have loved to drain it, plus a few more, but he was warned to avoid it. He caught Sam's eye, and started in. "Look, Dwight...we agree with you; it has gotten dangerous. We really wanted to reunite mother and daughter; keep things the way they used to be. But we can't even guarantee that we can find the damn stone lamb now, or how long it will take. I don't think the situation is stable enough to wait anymore. But it's not the house that needs burning..."

"I'm listening."

Dean was uncomfortable with this part. He never liked revealing anything about their methods; they usually just ended up looking like dangerous lunatics. But Dwight was up to speed regarding the whole _Angry Spirit Hannah_ thing, and so far he was ok with it. "Dwight; we have to salt, and burn Hannah Shaw's remains. It is the only way to release her screwed-up spirit. I know that sounds like we're nuts, but trust us, ok? We know what we're doing, we've done it hundreds of times before. It can be dangerous; sometimes they fight back...but it has to be done, and as soon as possible. We'll handle it; you have enough to deal with, with your crutches and poor Edith right now. You ok with that?"

Dwight laughed without mirth. "_Hell,_ yes. I'm perfectly happy to leave this up to the experts. And I know Edith would be heart-broken if she lost that house, although I'm not sure what's left of it at the moment. But do you mind me asking you two something?"

Sam beat him to it. "You want to know why we do it, don't you? Well, it's a long and complicated story, Dwight; but it comes down to the fact that our Dad taught us to hunt down and fix things like this whenever we can. We have a history with this kind of thing; our mom was killed by something—something beyond the normal realm. It's sort of a vocation, if you want."

Dwight nodded. "Well, boys; you sure as hell have my blessing. If you can fix this for Edith, I'll be forever in your debt. I'm not sure what the hell to think of it all, but I know that what's going on at the cottage is beyond my helping. Do whatever you have to, but be careful!"

They nodded. "We'll wait a few days until the cops clear out. We don't want an audience, especially that kind." Dean said, rising to leave. 'Take it easy, Dwight...don't do too much too soon."

Dwight looked up with a chuckle. "Interesting advice, considering the source."

"We'll keep you posted." Sam said. "Give Edith our best, ok?"

Dwight nodded, and watched them go. He poured himself another shot and swirled it for a while, worrying. Damned bizarre, this Hannah Shaw business. He was glad the brothers were here to deal with it, he was uncomfortably out of his element in all this. But he was anxious. Those boys may be experts, but somebody was going to get _hurt._


	9. Chapter 9

9

Dwight had received the news a few days later that the death was officially classed as an accidental electrocution, and the fire was deemed electrical in nature as well. An older man, weakened by rough living, Peter Lathem didn't stand a chance when Hannah brought the household power out of the walls at him. The case was closed, the police tape came down, and things settled again. It was time.

Sam had made sure Dean had a few days of uninterrupted rest this time, and he already looked and sounded better. And he'd called and called the number provided for the lamb's buyer, to no avail. She wasn't there, or she wasn't answering. He'd left multiple messages but she didn't return his calls. It worried Sam, he hoped they weren't looking at yet another victim.

The weather was bright this day, but no longer warm. The wind had a bite that heralded winter's approach; it made your ears red and your nose run. Dean flipped lazily through a Maxim magazine. "What if we just call all the Bellwoods in Fredericton, for starters? Might find some relative who can pass a message along, or at least knows where the hell she is."

"I'm way ahead of you as usual, Dean. I've already called nine Bellwoods; none of them knew anything. I have five more to go...after that we may have to branch out into other cities."

"Way ahead of me as usual?"

"Relax, I'm just bugging you. I'll call the rest of them, and then I guess we should get out there and start digging. I'd rather do this at night, but nobody will be able to see us back there anyway, and it's getting a little cold out there."

Dean grunted an answer, absorbed by his magazine again. The third call proved fruitful. When Sam got off the phone, Dean looked up at him expectantly.

Sam scratched his unruly hair. "That was a cousin. He said she's been admitted to Acadie Memorial Hospital, psych ward, since last week. Seems she's been hallucinating and hearing voices. He didn't know anything else, apparently they're not close. He just heard it through the family grapevine. So, judging from that..."

"Yeah, sounds like our crying kid's been around. It's good news, Sam, but we still have to, you know…"

Sam sighed. "Yeah, I know. Might as well get to it."

* * *

><p>They drove out to the Rose cottage. Neither had seen the fire damage up close yet. It was a sad thing, standing in front of it now, with the windows broken out on the one side, stained black streaks above on the shingled walls. They could still smell the acrid stench of burnt and water-saturated old wood. Neither felt much like going in; it was safer not to anyway. They just hoped they could accomplish their grim task without incident. Sam carried the heavy shovel and pick, while Dean had the kerosene tin, matches and other necessities. They made their way through the long grass until they reached the little overgrown shrine. Hannah's stone stood there as before, forlorn and forgotten. Dean noticed again the rectangle of raw earth beside it. It begged for the return of the lamb. He wanted to do that, after this. It still felt necessary, still felt right.<p>

Dean laid down a tarp, placed the tin and things at its edge and sat down cross-legged. He smiled widely at Sam.

"Pretty pleased with yourself that you don't have to dig, aren't you?" Sam griped good-naturedly.

"Hey, I'd help, but you'd have an army of little old ladies kicking your ass."

Sam snorted. "No shit."

The ground had been undisturbed for over two centuries; it was pretty well settled. Sam built up a sweat, discarding his jacket as he dug and hacked through the stony soil. Dwight came up from the driveway, slowly; still learning his crutching technique. He had wanted to witness the thing, although he still wasn't sure why.

He greeted them solemnly. "How's the digging, Sam?' he asked.

"Hard. But I'm almost there, I think." He drove his shovel in again, and was rewarded with the distinct, hollow sound of steel on old wood. "Here we go." He scraped and shoveled carefully now, revealing the remains of the ancient coffin. Dwight leaned over, fascinated. It was morbid, but it was a rare opportunity; not many people could claim to have seen such a thing, except a handful of archeologists. Sam stood, stretched his back and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Well...say hello to Hannah Shaw."

He exchanged his shovel for a pry-bar and carefully and quickly pulled the rotted lid apart. Hannah lay just as she had been placed so long ago, reduced to grey bones now, the faded, disintegrating silk of a gown covering most of her body. A long braid of hair; now ropey and colourless, still draped over the ruined fabric and bones of her bodice. Dwight stood in sombre silence, awed by the thought that he would be the first, and last, descendant to see her since her tragic end two hundred years ago.

Dean handed the kerosene tin down to Sam. He opened it and began pouring the fuel into the space occupied by her skeleton. But he stopped after a few moments, having only poured a portion of what would be needed to incinerate all her remains.

"Why'd you stop, Sam?" Dean asked. He was shivering now, and wanted to get this over with.

"Something down here; looks like a little bottle or something." He crouched down, brushing away the dirt "There's stuff in it; looks like…a dried flower, and some ribbon…and hair—"

Dean peered down, his mind working in worry. Witch bottles, as they were called, were often buried under thresholds of old houses, filled with odd things believed to ward off evils, but he'd never seen one uncovered in a burial. He was suddenly filled with unease. "Sam! Don't touch it!" he warned, too late.

Sam had already picked it up and was examining it in the waning light. Dean watched as his brother's expression suddenly went blank. The bottle slipped from his fingers back into the soft dirt, and he slowly stood up in the pit, staring back at the house.

"Sam...?"

Tears began to well from Sam's eyes, spilling over and running down.

-_Shit!— _"Sam! Sammy, come on out of there!" Dean urged, extending his hand.

Sam turned to him, his face a mask of sorrow. He ignored the proffered help, and slowly hauled himself out of the grave, standing silent and seemingly oblivious to their presence.

Dean approached him carefully. "Sam? You alright..? Can you hear me?" He put a hand on his arm, shaking him gently.

Hannah turned to Dean, seeing him through Sam's eyes, aware of him now. And she spoke, for the first time in centuries.

"Why couldn't you leave us be…? she sobbed miserably. It was a bizarre spectacle; Sam's big frame, his deep voice, but clearly a stranger's gestures and words. "You take everything, and you leave me with nothing." Her speech was distracted, distant. She wrung her hands, holding them close to her chest.

"Hannah...?" Dean asked, fear freezing him to his core. He backed away slightly "Where's Sam? Where's my brother?"

"You take it all..." she said again, still staring toward her former home.

Dean knew they were in trouble now. If she'd somehow transferred into Sam the moment he held the bottle, as she'd seemed to; then she had a physical presence now, and a damn strong one. And where was Sam? Was he still in there, fighting against her control? "Hannah, we're not trying to hurt you...we want to stop your pain."

She slowly tore her gaze away from the cottage, leveling her intense stare at Dean. "No…"

"Please listen, Hannah! We only want to-"

"No!" She dropped her gaze to the ground, still trance-like, and picked up the discarded shovel. She gripped it in both hands, raised it slowly, and swung clumsily at Dean.

"Dwight, go! Get out of here!" Dean warned.

Confused and terrified, Dwight did as he was advised.

Dean backed away from another uncoordinated swing. He held his hands out, trying to convince her of his good intentions, that he was friend rather than foe. "Sam...Hannah! Please stop! Let me-"

But Hannah was growing angrier, her sorrowful expression replaced by something worse. She struck at him again, the shovel now held firm in Sam's strong hands. Dean ducked away from the blow; the edge of the shovel glancing sharply off his shoulder. He stumbled backwards, landing hard on the uneven mound of earth. He swore, his face screwed up against the pain from the jarring impact, and was forced to hold his hand up defensively now.

"Hannah, please! Goddamn it, I'm trying to help you! Don't do this-" He struggled to get up, desperately backing away from the angry wraith inhabiting his brother's form. "Listen to me, please! I can help-"

"Nooo!" she wailed, dropping the tool and balling up Sam's fists at his sides. "Liar! You only harm! You stole her from me again; my precious child! You burned my home! LEAVE ME BE!"

She lunged at him, shoving him hard. His heel broke the crumbly edge behind him, and he lost his footing, clawing at the grass in a doomed attempt to break his fall before tumbling awkwardly into the damp grave pit. He landed hard, crushing the splintered wood and bones beneath his back, and for a moment he lay still, disoriented and groaning. He rolled to try to get up, but cried out, as a fresh, stabbing pain lanced through his middle, and his vision swam. The stink of the kerosene filled his senses, and he opened his eyes to see Sam standing over the hole. He had the matches in his hands.

"No...no...Sam, please!" he whispered hoarsely, terrified.

But Hannah remained unmoved by his plea. Her tormentor now lay below, and she wanted vengeance. She stared down at him, expressionless.

"Sam...Hannah, don't-"

His words fell on deaf ears. She struck the match and dropped it. Dean screamed and covered his head with his jacket, thrashing as the oily accelerant burst into flames around him. Hannah stood at the edge, staring down, until the flames died out. When it was dark and silent at the bottom of the hole, she turned away, and wandered slowly back to the house.

* * *

><p>Dwight sat in his car, trying to calm down. <em>This was too much<em>—He was uncomfortably accepting of the idea of a haunting, but this was something else entirely. He'd seen it with his own eyes; the young man became the vessel for her long-dead spirit! He wanted to vomit, he was so frightened. He'd lived the quiet, simple life too long, and he realized now that he had no stamina for strife anymore. But he knew that Dean was still there, in danger; as was Sam, and all to solve his and Edith's own problems. He had to get a grip, swallow his fear... Dwight took a few deep breaths and opened the car door.

He crept as well as he could on crutches, through the back yard. He saw no sign of Sam anymore, nor of Dean for that matter. But he smelled the odor of something burnt. He approached the dirt mound, furtively glancing around for anything threatening. Nothing presented itself and he peered fearfully over the edge into the grave. His heart froze at what he saw. A person...Dean; lay at the bottom, sprawled awkwardly, as still as death itself. Dwight could smell scorched clothing, and singed hair and kerosene.

"Dean?" he called softly. There was no response from the figure in the pit. Dry-mouthed with fear, Dwight fumbled in his pocket, grasping the small LED flashlight he kept his keys clipped on.

-_Jesus_— The cool, bluish light illuminated the grave. Dean's head was hidden by his jacket, but his hands were exposed, curled into fists, gripping his collar, and clearly burned. His jacket was scorched in places, still smoking. Horrified at the scene below, Dwight leaned further over the hole, searching desperately for evidence of life. He stared, breathlessly, waiting for a sign, some movement. He found it. Dean's chest rose and fell slowly; he was breathing.

Dwight knelt and carefully pulled back the jacket collar with the tip of a crutch, steeling himself. He huffed in relief. Thankfully, Dean's head and face were unharmed; he'd successfully protected himself from the flames with his collar and his unfortunate hands. But he was unconscious. Dwight wracked his brain to think. He had to get him out of there, out of harm's way; but he was a dead weight at the bottom of a six foot deep pit and Dwight himself was severely hampered. And Sam; what of him? He feared his return, in this apparently possessed state. Dwight had seen what Hannah could do in her spirit form; god only knew what she would be like in the physical. More than he could handle, that was certain.

He tried again. "Dean? Son, can you hear me? Dean-!"

Dean stirred and moaned softly.

"Dean, it's Dwight!"

Dean groaned again and coughed, his eyes fluttering. Dwight tried desperately to keep him conscious. "Come on now, son; stay with me! We need to get you out of that hole—"

Dean opened his eyes, trying to fathom what was being asked of him. _Someone was calling him_— He started to push himself up, but fell back with a cry. He shuddered with the intense and sickening pain in his hands and back. Unable to rise again, he curled up, choking back a sob as his blistered skin brushed against the splintered coffin lid. He coughed and gagged as his lungs filled with the damp from the earth, the mold, and the smoke.

"Dean! Come on, son, wake up now!" Dwight urged, growing frantic. He carefully lay down beside the edge of the hole and lowered a crutch into the pit. "Grab hold, Dean, you hear-? Listen to me!"

Dean forced himself back to lucidity, as Dwight's anxious words pierced the fog that clouded his mind. He raised himself onto his elbows and stayed there for several moments, until he had slowed the whirling black behind his eyes. Finally, he reached up and grasped the crutch, and used it to haul himself upright in the hole, swaying as he fought to stay that way. His lungs were filled with smoke and kerosene fumes, and he hung on tight as he coughed until his eyes streamed. Dwight talked him through it, pulling up as hard as he could on the crutch once Dean had it firmly in hand. As soon as Dean's shoulders were up over the edge, Dwight twisted the back of his jacket in a tight grip and hauled him the rest of the way out. Dean choked out a yelp at the pressure of Dwight's hands, as sharp pain lanced through his torso from the fragile callus of healing bone.

Both men sprawled in the grass. Dwight lay on the mound of earth for several minutes, panting. He wasn't in the shape these younger men were in; and with the recent mishap, his stamina was sorely tested. Dean curled up, shaking with shock as he tried to keep his injured hands from touching anything. Cursing his cumbersome cast, Dwight got up and leaned over the younger man, trying to comfort him, assuring him it would all be right again soon. Dean gathered himself and after some time, Dwight was able to get him to his feet. The distance to his car seemed like miles, but somehow they managed to get to it.

* * *

><p>Edith was appalled. Dwight had gotten Dean back to the house, and between them they'd managed to get him into Dwight's first floor bedroom. She'd quickly stripped him of his layers of clothing, and the roadmap of old scars and fresh bruises on his torso left her speechless. She momentarily lost her characteristic steadiness, and dissolved into tears. His back still bristled with stitches from his first encounter with Hannah. She couldn't stand the thought that she had added to this; that their stupid, minor difficulty would be carved onto his hide for the rest of his life while she suffered no ill effects from all this. And old Peter Lathem had died in a house that she owned. She was terrified that poor Dean would join the ranks. She argued with Dwight again about calling for an ambulance.<p>

"No, Dwight, please, don't... I have to stay here." Dean pleaded hoarsely. His fevered state amplified his feeling of threat. Thanks to past experiences, he had a deep-rooted fear of going back to the hospital, and he feared abandoning Sam even more.

Dwight gently pushed him back against the crisp, clean sheets as Edith swabbed his brow again. Ever since he'd been brought back to the house, he'd passed in and out of consciousness, burning up, and fretting over his brother. Edith had cleaned and bandaged his hands; the back of each was painfully scorched, but the burns were not third degree. He'd been lucky, if you could call it that. Sam had poured only a small amount of kerosene before he'd stopped, and Dean's thrashing had extinguished it before he was severely burned. Had it been the full amount he would have been immolated in the grave. Dwight did what he could to soothe his feverish angst, but he really had no idea how to approach the problem with Sam.

* * *

><p>It had been two days. It seemed to Edith that her charge's condition worsened steadily, and after some nervous searching by Dwight, there was still no sign of his brother. Edith was terrified that the young man would expire under her care, and she demanded that Dwight get him to hospital. But Dean was equally compelling in his fevered insistence that he stay here, near to Sam, in case he needed him. Dwight Croscup, LLB, QC; was used to choosing sides and confidently defending his choice. But now he was caught between Dean and Edith, two powerfully intractable forces; and the circumstances were so irregular that he found he just couldn't fish or cut bait. He knew damned well that Dean should be in hospital, but he also knew why he shouldn't. And all that, compounded by the fact that his brother was wandering around with a distraught and angry two hundred year old spirit driving the bus. There was nothing in his law books illustrating any precedence for <em>that<em>.

But in the end, he chose to honour Dean's wishes. Dean had been talking to himself, agitated, as his fever peaked. Dwight listened intently as the young man unknowingly revealed deeply guarded secrets about himself, his troubles, his history. Dwight wasn't sure how much was real and how much was hallucination; the things he said were so strange and outlandish. Much of what he mumbled about defied reason, but then again, after what he'd seen with his own discerning eyes recently; his mind was a little more open. But one thing was abundantly clear. These boys were in trouble. Deep, legal trouble.

"He sounds croupy." Edith frowned. She was right, Dean's breathing was growing increasingly raspy and laboured. His fever wouldn't break. She'd given him more than double the recommended amount of Tylenol, but it might as well have been sugar pills for all the effect it had. Again she pestered Dwight.

"Look, Aunt Edith, I can't tell you why at this time, but it's best he not go in to the hospital right now! And with poor Sam out there; god knows what's happening to him, we just have to weather this for the time being!" He rarely lost his temper, but he was frustrated and afraid, worried that his decision was the wrong one.

In a moment of lucidity, Dean responded to their argument. "Dwight...Helen's cottages, in the bathroom...there's some medicine." he whispered.

"Absolutely, son, anything to help this. What are they, what am I looking for?"

"Bottle of big pills, for pneumonia."

Dwight was aghast. He hadn't realized he was that sick. "What exactly happened to you, Dean, in the cottage?"

"We got shocked...I hit the pegs on the wall, drove a rib into a lung."

"_What? Christamighty_! Why didn't you say something?"

"Why would I? Doesn't change anything."

Dwight wanted to speak more, but Dean had tired, and was drifting. He ran his hands over his wiry grey hair, feeling sick with regret. _Should have burned that damned house in the spring! _He was mortified, and filled with uncertainty. The whole situation, it was ridiculous, it was insane. He was unaccustomed to feeling stymied. But picking up the pills, perhaps the rest of their things; _that_ at least was something useful he could do, and he left immediately.

* * *

><p>Sam watched from the sidelines as Hannah stumbled about in his form. He felt like a balloon, floating helplessly, tethered to his own wrist and incapable of controlling his body. He'd watched from outside himself, in abject horror, as Hannah did those terrible things... -<em>Dean<em>- But it was his hands holding the shovel, _his_ hands striking the match… And Hannah had taken him away after that, back into the house. He had no idea if Dean was still alive. Hannah took his body upstairs, where she huddled in a corner, hidden by a dresser, weeping inconsolably for days. Her sorrow was all she knew since Emeline was stolen from her. She'd wandered and wept ever since that day, stopping only to rise up and rail against anyone who intruded on her sorrow, those who came into her home, —thieves, monsters, the _living_— who were the root of it all. Sam floated beside her, unable to communicate with her, helplessly tied to her and her whims. He had heard Dwight call for him repeatedly, but couldn't answer. He knew he must be starving by now, and chilled to the bone. He didn't feel it, and she didn't care.


	10. Chapter 10

NEXT

Dwight had to get Helen to let him in. She was snippy, none too pleased to be relinquishing her guests. He wanted to tell her that he wasn't simply stealing her source of income away for purely competitive reasons, but at the moment he thought it best to stay silent on the matter. He simply let her grumble, and when she'd gone, he loaded their belongings into his truck and returned to Edith's. He made sure his old Aunt didn't see the rather shocking assortment of weapons stashed amongst their things, but he also made sure they stayed safely under lock and key until he knew more about these two boys. Better safe than sorry.

Edith was busy heating some broth, and he brought the pills in to Dean. Dean stirred at the sound of his visitor. "Sammy-?" His eyes were glassy with fever again, he was shaking and damp.

"No, son, it's me, it's Dwight. I have your medicine here, do you understand?" He carefully lifted Dean's head and pressed one of the large pills to his lips, and held a cup of water.

Dean turned away. "No, I gotta go. I have to find him-" he croaked, attempting to rise.

Dwight pushed him back gently. "Whoa, Dean; you're not going anywhere, not today. Take this now. I'll go to the house and look for him again, I promise."

His comprehension was slow, but he blinked at Dwight, and nodded.

Dwight knew what he'd seen at that graveside, but he still needed to hear it confirmed. "Dean...do you remember what happened with Sam?"

"Hannah... Sam touched something, something linked to her…she was pulled into him, somehow, I don't know." He was out of breath and he stopped, wheezing. "Did we burn them, her bones?"

"No, sorry...you were the only one burned. Should we, I mean...should_ I- _finish it, Dean?" Dwight asked, praying the answer was no.

Dean rubbed his face, willing clarity onto his foggy brain. "I...I don't know yet… I don't know what it'll do to him. There's somebody I need to call... I need my phone."

Dwight retrieved it from the night stand. Edith had emptied his jacket in the hopes that she could repair it, but when she saw how badly it had been scorched, she was forced to discard it. "Do you want some privacy?" Dwight offered.

Dean shook his head. "You're in this too, Dwight; you might have to take care of some of this stuff."

Bobby answered.

"Bobby, it's Dean."

Bobby Singer never expected a mere socail call from the Winchesters. "Uh oh, what's wrong now?"

"Bad salt & burn; Sam's out wandering around with some pissed off spirit in him. We're up in Nova Scotia, Canada."

Bobby paused, forming a mental map of their location. "You sound like shit, Dean, I can barely hear you. What else is going on?"

"I'm fine, Bobby, it's nothing."

That was more than Dwight could take. He snatched the phone from him. "Sir, my name's Dwight Croscup. Our young friend and his brother were helping my family with what apparently is an angry ghost. It went bad, I'm afraid. Dean here is very sick; got some burns, broken bones and such, and the young lad is playing host to a very unhappy woman's spirit, so it seems. He's been wandering out there for several days."

Bobby appreciated the candor. "I see. Thanks for the real story, I rarely get that from him."

Dwight handed the phone back to a glowering Dean, who continued. "Anyway, Bobby, here's the thing. She was buried two hundred years ago with a sort of witch bottle with stuff in it that seems to be a strong link to her, and to her kid, who's messing people up somewhere else right now." He paused again to cough and catch his breath. "We were trying to salt and burn. Sam picked up the bottle, and that was it; she was suddenly in him. I don't know what to do now; do we keep on with the burn? Can it hurt Sam?"

Bobby was silent for a moment. "Burial bottle…that's pretty rare. She must have wanted to stay near, stay connected… But it seems to be the key, so my guess would be to destroy it first; it should break that link, and then finish your burn. Can't see Sam getting any hurt if you do that, but this is pretty unusual."

"A lotta '_should's_ and '_maybe's_, Bobby..."

"Sorry, Dean, not like there's a how-to manual for this crap; you know that."

Dean sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. Thanks, man. I'll keep in touch."

"Wait! If I leave right now I can be there in a day and a half. Can you hold off 'til then?"

"I...I don't think so, Bobby. I have to find him, now. I don't know what this is doing to him... By the time you get here, this'll be done with, so don't come out. But just...stay near a phone, ok? This whole thing is a strange one...not exactly sure what I'm doing here."

Bobby knew he was right. Better he should stay in contact, with his wealth of books at hand, should Dean need guidance, rather than wasting time on the road. "Ok, if that's what you want. I'll be here when you need, so keep me posted. ..And Dean; for god's sake, take care of yourself! You're useless to him if you're half dead!"

Dean sighed wearily. "Seeya, Bobby."

Dwight pulled up a chair and sat, clearly expecting to be informed, but Edith had entered with her broth. "Dean, dear; drink this, it's very good."

He knew that the fastest way to be rid of the old doll was to do as he was told. With his hands wrapped, it was too awkward, he had to allow her to feed him. But wounded pride aside, it really was the best soup he'd ever tasted, and he felt better after he'd finished. At least that was a bonus over old Tom's bland efforts in the kitchen. She promised tea later, checked his sweaty forehead with a worried frown, and brushing his cheek sadly, she left them.

Dwight turned to him. "Ok, Mr. Winchester, tell me what to do now."

Dean froze, and looked down, shocked to hear him use his real name. "You mean Edwards…"

"No sir, I do not. " Dwight stared pointedly at him.

Dean met his eyes, wondering, then realizing with dismay that he'd been babbling again. "Aw crap!"

"Yes, you do talk a fair bit in your sickness, son. We have some things to discuss; you and Sam, and I. But that's for later. Right now, I'm your eyes and hands and legs, so what do I have to do?"

The comforting warmth of the broth made him sleepy, Dean was fading fast. He had to admit that he needed Dwight to do this. "The bottle at the bottom of the hole...Sam had it in his hands, he dropped it back down there. You have to find it and smash it, all its contents. But for god's sake, don't touch it! Use a rock, or a tool. After that, soak her bones with the kerosene, dump the salt over everything and burn them. She'll be released. But we need to find Sam first; if the burn looks like it's hurting him, we can stop it before it's too late. You can't do both, and we don't have any more time. I've gotta...I need to go with you, Dwight."

Dwight sat back and looked at him. This was crazy; he was weak and sick, barely able to stay alert. "Son, I can't let you get up, it'll be the death of you."

"C'mon, Dwight, you know I'm right; you saw what we're dealing with!"

Dwight rubbed his eyes, trying to ignore his persistent headache. He sighed in defeat. "Christ almighty, that old woman's gonna kill me. Fine, you win; it's your brother and your life. But at least rest for a couple of hours first, alright? I'm a lot older and softer than I used to be; I can't haul you around again if you drop!"

Dean reluctantly agreed, and the moment he did so, he let go and drifted off. Dwight leaned back in his chair, watching as the young man's pale features relaxed.

"Damn!" he muttered. "Damn damn _damn_..."

* * *

><p>It seemed Hannah really had no concept of the fact that it was different for her now. Her transfer into Sam was unintentional; she had spent centuries as a spirit. It had been a choice; she'd carefully and secretly arranged it before expediting her demise by her own hand. Now she simply continued to do as she had always done since that day so long ago.<p>

It used to be so, so blissful... reunited with her child, her Emeline. The two of them would float among the roses, chasing butterflies and dandelion fluff as they drifted by. With Emeline beside her, it was always warm and sweet and laughter-filled in the garden. They listened to the strangers in their house, giggling at their silly follies and concerns, playing harmless tricks on them, hiding little things. At night they would fly with the owls, following fireflies, and dancing with the moths in the silver moonlight as it played across the soft, velvet lawn.

When Emmy took sick and died, so long ago... Hannah couldn't bear to live alone again with her cold and loveless husband, and dreaded even more the thought of God's sterile, sinless, lifeless heaven after that. She wanted to be with her only source of happiness, her little girl—wherever and however that could be.

And _God_ had been no help at all. Hannah had lived a righteous life, just as she was taught, just as was expected of her. But when she turned to him to save her child, he abandoned her... and he abandoned her child, and all the children who were struck down by fever that terrible season. When she and Benjamin had laid that tiny little coffin into the cold , black ground, the sun itself was buried with her. The priest droned his hollow, and soulless words, offering nothing of solace. She'd dutifully listened to his sermons and directives every Sunday; oh, how she hated him-so pious, and so _useless_.

And Benjamin. _Good _Benjamin, -devout, industrious, callous Benjamin. He'd dusted the earth from his hands, taken her home, demanded his supper and took his husbandly right at the end of the day, telling her he would replace the dead one with a proper, strong boy next. His casual indifference to her trauma was the last straw. The next morning, Hannah sought out a more reliable source of solace.

She knew of the old midwife at the edge of the wood. They all did, the women of the village. You went to her if you had ills that the pompous doctor had no real idea how to treat. You saw her when you needed relief from things too shameful to discuss. And if you had nine starving children and knew an unwanted tenth was coming…

And you went to her if you had deeper needs, for which no relief could be had through god or man. Hannah went to her, and found her comfort.

Sam could see her anguish. He sort of felt it, understood it; like a faint memory of a book he'd read long ago. But his tether was growing thin, stretched long, like a spider's silk. She stayed in her place, ignoring the needs of the body she now called home. She felt the hunger, the thirst, and the cold, but they were nothing compared to the torment of her mind. She ignored those other pains. Sam could see his physical form growing weaker, shivering with the cold, but he couldn't do anything to help himself. He was vaguely aware of the passage of days, but keenly aware of the fact that he hadn't seen Dean since...

And Dean hadn't come for him. He was sure he knew why. He was dead…burned to death by his own brother's hand. And soon enough, as Hannah allowed him to waste away; Sam would be dead too.

* * *

><p>Some two hours after his conversation with Dwight, Dean awoke. He tried to call him, but he had very little voice, and Dwight was down the hall. He could hear the television. He could bang something to alert him, but that would bring Edith running and he wanted to avoid that. Instead, he looked his room over for some clothing, and seeing the freshly laundered stack, he slowly and carefully raised himself from his bed, sitting on the edge for a moment until the roar in his ears died down to a hiss. He was wearing a damp tee-shirt, but he found it too much of a challenge to pull off, so he layered on a few shirts, not even attempting to button them with his painfully bandaged hands, and took his time getting a hooded fleece over his head and shoulders. It was nearly impossible to raise his right arm now, when he did so, a sharp, shooting pain lanced through his back and side. It was worse than before; he realized he must have done some fresh damage to his fracture in the fall. <em>Worry about it later-<em>he thought.

The jeans were a challenge, but he got them done up finally. All he needed were his shoes. He swallowed a handful of the aspirin that were left on the night table, and very slowly crept down the hallway. Peeking round the corner, he could see Edith and Dwight and the TV. Thankfully, Edith was turned away from him, but Dwight was sitting where he could get his attention, if he was lucky. Sweating with dizziness, he sat on the bottom step of the stairs and waved silently, finally catching his eye.

Dwight stood, stretched, and excused himself, saying he was going to get some air. He knew the old dear would likely nap in front of the television; it was usually the case. He often woke her gently after her programs had long been over. He met Dean and guided him out into his truck.

"Look, are you sure you're up to this?" he demanded.

Dean was hunched in the passenger seat, looking anything but. "Dwight, don't worry about me, alright? When you need me, I'll be there!" he growled.

"Ok then." Dwight gunned it to heat the interior and proceeded out to the Rose cottage.


	11. Chapter 11

NEXT

Everything was as they'd left it. The tin of kerosene, still almost full; was at the edge of the grave, where Sam had set it before he'd stooped to pick up the bottle. The tarp had blown into the trees, but the shovel and tools were lying on the mound. The salt had solidified somewhat in it's cardboard box, and Dean kicked it a few times to loosen it. And the matches lay where they'd been dropped.

Both men looked down into the hole. Dean shivered in revulsion. The panic of that moment; staring up dizzily as his brother dropped that damned match, was still fresh in his mind. He corrected himself; _Hannah_ dropped it. He had to be careful or he could end up resenting Sam for things he had no control over. Dwight shuddered too, staring at the empty eyes and the gaping jaw of the skull at the bottom.

Dean wished he'd planned better. He didn't know what he was thinking, coming out here with out so much as a rock-salt gun. But salt was probably useless anyway; Hannah wasn't a spirit anymore, he'd just be shooting it at Sam. _Serves him right, a load of rock salt shot at his ass_... He mentally chastised himself again. -_Wasn't Sam_.

Dwight had discarded his crutches. He was weight bearing on his cast to speed himself, as he found the crutches awkward and hindering, and chose the discomfort instead. Dean noticed, but said nothing, he could hardly play devil's advocate in this case. ..Or any other, for that matter.

"Ok…it's all here, it's ready. I think we should go check the house, see if Sam is there. If he is, we can get him and maybe bring him here." The cold air made breathing and speaking a challenge for Dean. He wasn't quite sure how they were going to accomplish that between the two of them. Sam was strong, really strong. But he'd been out for days; hungry, tired. _Definitely cold, that oughta slow him down some_… He prayed, for what it was worth, coming from him; that his brother was there. If he wasn't….if he was out there wandering around the steep slope of the North Hill, they were all screwed. It was all basalt cliffs and birch and spruce-neither he nor Dwight had a hope in hell of negotiating that rough terrain.

The two made their way back, entering the open back door of the house. It still reeked of the fire's aftermath. Like strange, alien graffiti; black, wavy streaks of carbon marked the walls, and curled across the ceilings, emanating from the kitchen. The paintings were still hanging; some blackened with soot, some spared. Everything was still slick with water from the fire-fighters' strenuous work. With no power, and no heat on, nothing had a chance to dry out. Dean tried to call, but he succeeded only in coughing, and he huddled against the wall until the pain subsided. Dwight did instead.

"Sam? Sam...are you here?"

They stood silently, listening. Dwight looked to Dean, who shook his head and whispered, "Don't call him, call for Hannah."

Dwight hadn't thought to do that. He'd been calling for Sam for days, with no response. "Hannah? Hannah Shaw, are you there?"

They heard a creaking, a shuffling across the floor above. Someone, or something was stirring upstairs. Dean immediately pushed past Dwight and slowly began to climb the steep, curving staircase. It was exhausting for him, waves of weakness threatened to force him to sit where he was, and cold sweat was trickling down the small of his back, but he forced himself to buck-up and get upstairs as fast as he could. He gripped the handrail hard when he reached the top landing, momentarily at risk of blacking out. Dwight thumped up behind him, supporting him for a moment. Dean drew a ragged breath, wiped the perspiration from his eyes and moved forward, peering into the gloom of the first room.

-_Nothing_.

He continued down the short hallway, checking the next room.

* * *

><p>They were rewarded. A figure was crouched in the corner, big feet sticking out past the dresser leg. It was Sam, or rather, Hannah. She raised her head, staring balefully at these new intruders. She tried to do as she'd always done; she glanced at the dresser top, and the outlet, attempting to send things flying at her unwelcome visitors, concentrating hard to draw the power out of the walls. But nothing worked. Those powers were gone, part of a different existence. She railed at them in weak frustration, rising now. Her means of driving them out failed her. She stared at Sam's hands, turning them, clenching and unclenching, -<em>feeling<em> them; and it dawned on her. She had new, different strengths. She realized she was now a part of the living world again, and she could express her misery and hatred in a physical way that she only barely remembered. Hannah embraced that now, she snarled and launched herself at them.

Dean side-stepped her as she threw herself at the two of them. But Dwight, unaccustomed to having to physically defend himself, was caught off guard and knocked to the floor under Sam's solid weight. He landed with an _oof,_ and pushed out from under him and rolled away, his cast thumping loudly on the pine boards. Forgetting his burns, Dean grasped Sam with both hands, holding fast to the back of his shirt and dragging him away from Dwight. He let go with a growled curse when his hands reminded him sharply of their injuries. Dwight scrambled out of the way, hyperventilating and wall-eyed with fear-

"Get out!" Hannah screeched, turning on Dean. She bowled him over, flattening him against the wall and digging Sam's fingers into his throat as he slid to the floor. Dean's vision went black at the impact, but he raised his hands in defense, prying his brother's arms away. It was a good thing Sam was not in peak form or Dean would have been throttled where he lay. He twisted sideways when he felt Sam's weight suddenly lifted, as Dwight had grabbed the younger man's feet and pulled as hard as he could.

Dwight backed away as Sam kicked free and stood up. "Now what?" he shouted in panic.

Dean was up on his hands and knees, swaying, trying to stay alert as he fought the urge to collapse. He raised his head. "Hit him-" he coughed, "Punch him hard in the jaw!"

Dwight had never hit a man in his life, but he drew back and did his best, landing an uncoordinated but solid blow on the point of Sam's chin as the younger man advanced toward him. The punch was effective, Hannah stopped in shock, and Sam's large frame dropped like a sack of sand, instantly disoriented. Dwight shook his hand, swearing, fairly sure he'd broken his knuckles.

Dean struggled to his feet momentarily but fell back to his knees. "Tie...tie his hands, quick!" he panted hoarsely. Dwight scanned the room for anything useful, and grabbed a lamp and tore out the cord. He did his best to bind the hands of Sam, who sat on his butt, shaking his head, still woozy from the blow. Dean levelled his breathing, waiting until his vision cleared, and made his way over to check Sam, to make sure he wasn't seriously hurt. "Nice shot." he said to Dwight. "Sammy always did have a glass jaw."

Dwight sat down, regaining some measure of calm and nursing his hand. He grinned for a moment. A bit late for a man his age, but he'd finally completed a male right of passage. He'd punched a guy out.

Dean was in serious danger of joining Sam. He gave up trying to stand for the moment, allowing himself to sit for a short while, until he felt a little more steady.

"Better tie his feet too." he said, resting his head on his knee.

Dwight found something else handy and did that. Both men took a breather as Sam, or rather Hannah; came to her senses. She struggled against her bonds, screaming at them, finally giving up with a sob, and hanging her head in miserable defeat. Dean and Dwight exchanged looks that radiated both fear and relief.

"Dwight, do you remember the thing I told you about, in the hole?" Dean said quietly, not wanting to agitate Hannah again. Dwight nodded, understanding what was needed of him. He made a hand gesture that imitated breaking something and Dean nodded.

"I'll stay here with him. You can manage?"

"Yes, I'll do that...but what if...what if something goes wrong?"

Dean looked at Sam, spying his cell in his shirt pocket. He reached out and pulled it, thankful that Hannah didn't react, and tossed it to Dwight. He then retrieved his own and called Sam's.

"There, keep the line open—we can stay in touch now."

Dwight was clearly afraid, but he headed toward the door.

"Soak her first; pour out all the kerosene, then dump all the salt in. Get ready with the match, and then smash that bottle." Dean instructed. "We can't have a delay between the break and the burn or she might start frying Sam and me again, ok?"

Dwight nodded. "I'll tell you when it's done."

Dean looked up at him. "I'll know."

* * *

><p>As Dwight made his way out towards the gravesite, Dean was left alone with Hannah . He found it strange and awkward, but he did want to communicate with her, while he had the chance. <em>If <em>he had the chance; so far she'd only reacted to them as she had when she was merely spirit. He tried anyway. "Hannah?"

She turned away from him, but he was sure she heard.

"Hannah, my name is Dean. You're in my brother's body...he's Sam."

Sam's eyes flicked in his direction.

"Hannah; I know you're hurting...I know you miss your little Emeline."

"You know nothing."

"No, I do. And I can help, Hannah. I know you wanted to spend forever with her, and I know some one took the lamb, and her, away."

Sam turned and looked at him, coldly. "_You _took her away. And you burned my home!"

"No, Hannah...not me. Those were others; but they didn't know, they didn't understand…But we know how to fix it. My brother, Sam—you took his body. Where is he now? Is he safe?"

She looked confused for a moment. "He is... beside, somewhere. I did not choose this."

"I know. It was an accident….but Hannah, we can find Emeline and bring her back to you. Sam knows where to find the lamb, you have to let him back in."

Sam's eyes widened with a raw pain. "Oh, my Emmy…..she is so lost…so lost." She began to weep again. Dean realized that mere reasoning would not break through Hannah's anguish, she was too distraught. He backed away from her and sat, waiting to hear from Dwight.

* * *

><p>Dwight lowered himself carefully into the hole, trying not to step on any of his ancestor's brittle bones. He rooted around for the little bottle, sifting carefully with the pry-bar. When he heard the sound of glass on iron, he stooped to look, and was relieved to see that it was there. He reached over the edge, grasped the shovel, and carefully scooped it up with the point of it. He then lay both gently on the grass. Next he took the kerosene, as instructed, and emptied it into the void within the coffin space. When the last drops were out, he discarded it and did the same with the box of salt. Then he pulled himself out of the hole.<p>

He spoke to Dean- "Ok, son…all done and waiting to break it."

Dean kept his eyes on Sam. "Whenever you're ready, Dwight."

Sam—_Hannah_—had been working at her bonds during the conversation with Dean. Unfortunately, stiff, old electrical cord made a poor substitute for rope, and Dwight hadn't been able to tighten his knot very well. It loosened quickly, and as soon as she felt the slackness, she pulled her hands free and threw herself again at her captor.

"_Jesus-!" _was all Dean had time to mutter before those hands were at his throat again; Hannah pushing Sam's thumbs in brutally below Dean's larynx. He struggled as hard as he could against the assault, but weak or not; Sam was still in better condition than Dean was, and within seconds he felt his world spin out of his control. He heard Dwight on the phone. "Now? Dean, should I do it now?"

Dean's eyes were rolling, but he mustered what little means he had to choke out an answer- "Now-!"

* * *

><p>Dwight wasn't sure if he'd gotten an affirmative, but he chose to act. He took a rock, and pulverized the bottle against the shovel, grinding until the contents were unrecognizable. The dried petals, the ribbon fragment, the fine blonde hair, all reduced to dust along with the glass.<p>

Sam felt himself pulled, sucked abruptly, like a vacuum, into his own body again. He was bewildered, and shocked to feel his brother's gurgling throat under his hands. Horrified, he immediately let go, and Dean drew a ragged, pained breath, falling limply to the floor.

"Dean? Dean-?" Sam yelled in panic.

Dean lifted his hand, waving weakly as he regained his breath and his vision returned to normal. He gestured to the phone, lying open on the floor. Sam handed it to him.

"Dwight!" he croaked, "Light it!" He dropped the phone, fell back and passed out.

Sam crouched over him, confused, and beside himself with terrified concern. Even in his displaced state, he had been privy to all that was happening, and he picked up the phone to ensure that it was being done.

"Dwight, it's Sam! Is it burning?"

Dwight answered. "Matches are damp—I've lit three already! —hang on!" Sam heard him curse in frustration

"Christ, hurry up, Dwight! She's freaked, she's gonna come at us!"

At last Dwight had success. The match flamed in his shaking fingers, struggled, then burned bright. He dropped it into the hole. The kerosene instantly caught; flames rushing into the coffin space, and throughout the grave. Oily smoke curled up, as the fire danced lazily in its confined space. Shaking with relief, Dwight wiped his face, leaned over, and promptly heaved until he was hollow.

Sam turned back to Dean, who lay silent and white on the floor. Shivering with cold and exhaustion, he cradled his brother's head, the tears in his eyes now only his own. "Dean? It's ok, now, I'm back… Dwight's burning her bones, it's ok now, it's all ok... Dean? Dean!"


	12. Chapter 12

Sam turned back to Dean, who lay silent and white on the floor. He cradled his head, the tears in his eyes now his own. "Dean-? …it's ok, now-I'm back….Dwight's burning her bones, it's ok now—it's all ok...Dean-? …Dean!"

12

"Quit- screaming- in my- ear!" Dean groaned.

Sam wiped at his tear-stained face. "Aw, man...thought you were toast there for a minute."

"Just about."

Dwight spoke again over the phone. "I think it's burning down now...the bones are sort of falling into ash…is that what we want?"

Sam picked up the phone. "Yeah, Dwight, thanks...good job. She's gone now, wherever she should have gone when she died. C'mon back."

"How's Dean?"

"He'll live...thanks to you."

"Ok then." Dwight hung up, and thumped through the long grass, taking his time.

* * *

><p>"You ok, Sam?" Dean whispered.<p>

"I guess. Man, that was weird. I could see everything going on, like I was just standing next to myself. But I sorta felt what she felt too. I know why she was so upset…she had a crappy life with her husband, until Emeline was born. She devoted everything to her, she loved her so much. And when she died..." He trailed off. "Dean, we have to release her too, Emeline...She's still out there, totally alone and afraid. This is so wrong this way, it's so awful—I can't even put it into words."

Dean struggled to sit up. "One thing at a time, Sam. I'm just hoping I can get out to the car right now."

Sam remembered-the grave...the match. He covered his face. "Dean! Oh my god, I burned you!"

"No you didn't, Sam; _she_ did. And it's not so bad anyway, just my hands, not third degree or anything. Just hurts like hell."

Sam swore. He'd have continued his distraught apologies, but Dwight had come into the room.

The elder man wore an expression that spoke volumes. "Well; that was pretty darned awful all around. You boys mind if I don't take up this new hobby permanently?"

Sam smiled a little. "Understood, Dwight. It pretty much sucks as a career too."

Dwight sat down awkwardly beside the two."So...that's it? The ghost of Hannah Shaw is no more?"

They both nodded.

"Well, that's good to hear. This was a sad and sorry tale. Edith will be very relieved to hear that the cottage is safe and that Hannah is at peace now. But what about the lamb; is that still important?"

Sam did the speaking, Dean was too weak to add anything. "Uh...well, now that Hannah is gone, there's no point in chasing the lamb to bring Emeline's spirit back here. Her mother won't be here for her. But she's still out there; still lost and crying. We really have to fix that. I mean, I'd have nightmares thinking of that little kid alone for eternity."

Dean had his eyes closed, but he nodded. It was a heart-wrenching thought. "Still have to burn Emeline's bones. Gotta get her out of the ground, maybe bring her here to do it, instead of where everybody can see."

"Well," Dwight said decisively, "That's a problem for tomorrow. Dean; you're in rough shape, but I'll give you the choice; Edith's or the hospital? Same to you Sam; you must be half-starved and frozen."

"I don't wanna go to Kentville, MacDonald will freaking kill me." Dean groaned.

"You sure? Sam demanded. "You got thrown around alot; how's your rib feel?" .

Dean offered a weary look of annoyance. "_Fine_."

* * *

><p>Dwight led the way to Edith's, as Sam drove the Impala. Sam was now fully and unhappily aware of the past few days effects on his body. While he was out of himself, he felt nothing, but he was keenly aware of hunger and thirst now. And he thought he'd never be warm again, his chill was so deep. The Impala had been sitting so long, it too was cold, and reluctant to accommodate anyone. After a balky start, and some redlining of the tach to encourage her, she finally roared to life. Dean smiled at the comforting rumble. As they pulled up behind Dwight, Dean warned him, "Fair warning boys; you're about to get attack-granny'd."<p>

"I don't care, as long as there's heat and food." Sam said, shivering.

"Cooks a helluva lot better than Tom." Dean assured.

"Good." He got out and went around, opening Dean's door. Dean sat limply, making no move to leave the car. Now that nothing was required of him, his adrenalin spent; he was perfectly willing to just stay where he was and sleep for a week.

"C'mon, Dean, I've got you." Sam said gently. He reached his arm around Dean's shoulders and carefully pulled him out of the seat. He looped Dean's arm around his neck and got him to his feet, but he didn't stay that way.

"Whoa!" Sam said, catching him. He held him steady until he could stand, but he was on the verge of dropping himself.

"Sorry, Sam...I'm just so done."

Dwight intervened and took Dean's other arm, and the trio entered the house.

* * *

><p>They got him back into his bed. Edith had just awoken and she was none the wiser about their escapade. But she was surprised, and very relieved to see Sam back, and apparently in one piece. She fussed and fretted, looking him over, until Dwight pulled him away. She immediately threw her efforts into another direction and set about making a hearty supper. Sam took a blistering hot shower as Dwight stripped the dressings off Dean's hands. "Now, son...talk to me honestly about what needs attention, or I'll sic that old woman on you."<p>

Dean sighed. "Nothing some sleep won't help, Dwight. If you know what you're looking at you can check that rib, 'cuz I'm pretty sure it cracked again. But there's nothing you can do for it anyway. Sam should pull the stitches by now." He stopped speaking and coughed painfully. " They tell me I'll feel a lot better when those pills are done."

Dwight finished re-dressing his hands. He had a look at the bruised area, but he wasn't a doctor. "Well; no dent, and nothing's sticking out, it's just black & blue. That's about all I can say, Dean."

"I guess it's ok. And Dwight...thanks for coming through out there." He was fading fast, too tired now even to shiver. Dwight tucked the blankets over him and let him drift off.

* * *

><p>Sam and Dwight had a fine supper with Edith. He gave her an abbreviated version of the events, keeping Dean out of it for Dwight's sake. But he was rewarded at seeing her tearful appreciation of their efforts. She was particularly glad to hear that Hannah was, as Edith put it; vexing the Lord now, instead. She agreed that the circle had to be closed; the child Emeline must be made to join her mother, although she fretted about the boys taking that on, after all they'd experienced.<p>

Dwight poured a round of brandies after they'd finished, as Edith went to fuss over her patient. "Sam…I really don't know how to thank you boys for what you've done. I know it was at a great cost to both of you. It's been a helluva learning experience, I tell you. I had no idea such things were real."

Sam sipped his brandy gratefully. "Dwight, it's what we do, Dean and I. I appreciate your thanks, and we're glad we could resolve this part of it. But don't feel any blame for what happened to us; we learned about the haunting through other channels and started to look into it before we even met you and Edith. So we are totally responsible for what we put ourselves through."

Dwight smiled and looked down for a moment. "Sam, now's not the time, Edith will be down in a moment...but we need to talk, you, Dean and I. Your brother…he rambles some...a lot; when he's sick. Did you know that?"

Sam was suddenly nervous. If Dean was talking in the throes of fever, well, he had a pandora's box of secrets he could have been revealing. "Uh...no, I wasn't aware."

"Well...let's just say that I know you Winchester boys have dug yourselves a fairly deep hole. Dean gave me a bit of a window into your very strange world, but I really need to talk with you in depth. I collected an astonishing array of strange, and deadly weapons from your other lodgings. I need to hear from the both of you, while you're lucid; about these things you hunt. Good Lord, Sam; it all sounds pretty darned unbelievable."

Sam didn't know what to say. He was shocked that Dwight knew these things. And shocked that Dean could be that vulnerable; he normally had such a tightly clamped lid. "I know how it sounds, Dwight. But you've seen some of it now; your eyes are a bit more open. What you experienced with Hannah; that's one of the easier things we've dealt with. There's a lot more out there...things that you really don't want to start believing in if you're going to keep sleeping at night. And sometimes it gets messy, we get caught in the middle. We rid this place of something dangerous and evil, but we end up looking like lunatics and criminals to everybody else. And we can hardly defend ourselves with the truth, you know? So, in the end, we're usually screwed."

Dwight played with his glass. "You were studying law…Stanford, no less."

"Yeah. I was."

"Your brother fretted about that, when his fever was high. He lamented taking that away from you…shed tears over it, as a matter of fact." He saw the effect that had on the young man; the pain in his eyes was raw.

"I _chose_ to leave with him, Dwight. My fiance was dead... our Dad had disappeared. I went with him to find some answers. He didn't take anything away from me...I just can't get him to believe that."

"Do you think you'll ever go back?"

Sam shrugged. "Life's a little...complicated right now.."

Dwight poured another shot for each of them. "Yes, Sam, it is...it really is. I think we need to sort some of this out, before it's too late. Are you aware that I am a lawyer?"

Sam smiled. "Yeah...we heard something about that. You weren't exactly doing wills and title searches, either."

Dwight chuckled. "No. I generally handled cases that were a bit more complex. Sam, if you level with me on all the details about you and your brother's charges; I know I can help you. You two are up to your eyeballs in shit, and I only know a fraction of it. Let me repay you for your efforts on our behalf. I may be Canadian, but I know my way around American criminal law. Will you let me do that for you?"

Sam was speechless for a moment. "I...well, I mean... Man, I sure would like to give it a shot. Thank-you, Dwight. I'll tell you everything I can, but Dean...he likes to stay pretty tight-lipped. I'm not sure he even believes there ever could be a way out of all this."

"Well, let's do our best to try. It'll take time to put together all the facts, and work out strategies. If you two can manage to survive for the next while, I can start to put it all together. Now, here she comes; talk later, ok?"

Sam nodded and looked down, his eyes becoming shiny. Dwight smiled at him and patted his shoulder.

Edith bustled in. "Sam, I need to feed our patient soon. Would you see if you can wake him? He needs something good on his stomach; after that he can sleep as long as he needs."

"Yes, ma'am." he said hoarsely, wiping his eyes, and heading upstairs.

Edith turned to Dwight and quietly asked, "Was that young man crying?"

"No." Dwight said, smiling gently. "He's fine."

* * *

><p>"Dean... Dean….wake up."<p>

Dean stirred and turned away from his tormentor. "Aw… Sam, get lost."

"Sorry, can't. Edith wants to make sure you get fed before you sleep; you'd better let her."

Dean knew he was right. And the aroma from dinner was still hanging in the air; it made his stomach growl regardless. "Fine. I'm awake, ok?"

Sam gave him his horse-pill, since it was due. He was still thrown by his conversation with Dwight, but he kept it to himself for the time being. Dean was in no shape to think about anything serious. "Dwight said you wanted me to pull your stitches; is it time?"

"Might as well."

Sam helped him turn over, and he checked them. He took out his swiss army knife, drew the scissors, and snipped and pulled all five. Dean cursed against his pillow.

"Ok?"

"Peachy. Thanks. When's the old doll coming with that supper? I'm starving."

"I'll go see."

"Wait…Sam; would you have a look for those painkillers of David's? Dwight brought all our stuff back."

He looked around for their toiletries, finding them in a drawer.

"Here. You ok?"

Dean swallowed them with a grimace. "It's fine, really. My side kinda aches, a little. Couldn't sleep. It's nothing; don't get all nursey on me."

"-Aches...like _'Ow, my spleen is everywhere'?"_

"Wrong side, unless I grew an extra one. And would you relax?" he snorted, irritated. "It just aches is all...broken ribs will do that, I hear."

"Sorry…just asking." Sam looked at his brother's haggard face. He wanted to talk; to tell him what Dwight had offered, but he knew that he should wait until he was stronger. No doubt he'd feel more threatened than buoyed right now. He was so glad that this part of the Hannah Shaw problem was over. He was anxious to complete it by releasing Emeline's spirit as well, but he had no plans to include Dean in that endeavour. He'd tackle that himself, maybe with a little help from Dwight. He vowed to himself that even if he had to tie him to the bed, he was going to make sure Dean took the time his battered body needed to get somewhere close to healthy again. He couldn't stand to see the gauze on his hands; the guilt cut so deep it made him feel ill. That memory was so terribly clear; holding the match, his brother's quiet voice begging him not to drop it. "Dean…I...I-"

Dean sighed. "Don't, Sam. Don't apologize again, alright? You know how this shit works. You know it wasn't you, I know it wasn't you. One more _I'm Sorry_ won't make it go away. You just have to get over this. Hell, I already did. Seriously, if it'll make you feel better, I'll let you buy me something purdy." He grinned a little grin for his forlorn brother.

Sam smiled back sheepishly. "_Purdy_, huh? I'll see what I can do."

* * *

><p>Edith came in carrying a tray laden with delicious smelling offerings. He was so tired, but it smelled so good. And he already knew she would sit beside him until every scrap was eaten. He hid the discomfort of his blistered hands and held the fork himself; he didn't want to be fed again, especially in front of Sam.<p>

"That was exactly what the doc ordered, thanks Edith." he smiled as he ladled up that last bit.

"Good boy. Now go back to sleep, dear. I'll get Dwight to set up the den for Sam. Do you need anything else? Water...Tea? Aspirin?"

"No, I'm good, thanks. G'night."

She crinkled a smile at him and shuffled back down the hall.

"Guess I'll go too then, if you're ok." Sam said.

"Wait, Sam. What about the rest of it; Emeline? We have to figure that out tomorrow, don't you think?"

"Sure, tomorrow." Sam lied.

"And the lamb; you had the name. What if she offs herself too?"

"I'll call again tomorrow, Dean. Maybe we can talk to her at the hospital. If she can ship it back here...well, anyway, tomorrow, ok?"

He nodded. He mumbled something akin to g'nightsam, and drifted off; the full supper and painkiller doing their good work.

Sam was exhausted too. After his unsettling experience hosting the anguished Hannah, he longed for the quiet release of sleep himself. Dwight did as Edith had requested; setting up the sofa-bed in the den. After more thank-you's and assurances that it was fine, he retired. It was still only ten-ish, but he was spent.

* * *

><p>Morning came late for the Winchesters. Edith, as was her custom, had been busy since seven, and Dwight had joined her for their usual breakfast.<p>

Edith lived to feed her family, she took great pride and satisfaction in making hearty, old fashioned meals. When her dear husband had passed on, she's spun her wheels for a few years. They had no children. And then Poor Dwight was widowed. He was lost as well, and childless too, and Edith was getting on and not as strong as she used to be. He'd chucked it all in the city and joined her on her little farm. They'd saved each other; from loneliness…from despair. It was no surprise that she loved having her young guests. Young, strong men with healthy appetites, she could cook like she hadn't done for so very long; in great, heaping quantities. She and Dwight ate like birds in comparison.

Sam wandered downstairs, embarrassed at the late hour. Both his hosts had a chuckle at his obvious shame, assuring him that he'd earned his respite. Edith immediately set about feeding him. As she busied herself in the kitchen, Dwight grew serious. "Did you sleep well?"

Sam nodded.

"Good…that's good to hear. Any effects from…Hannah?"

"No…I've felt worse. Listen, Dwight; I know you don't want to take this sort of thing on regularly, and believe me, I get that. But I have to deal with the rest of this thing…with Emeline. She's screwing people up in New Brunswick right now, and we have to stop it. The usual way Dean and I would do this is by night; we'd dig up the body, do the salt & burn and that would be it. But her grave is just too public; especially with those stupid midnight ghost tours. When I talked to Dean earlier, he agreed that a ruse; maybe about being from some health department doing research on old epidemics, would be the safer way, like hiding in plain sight. I was wondering if you could give me a hand in drafting some sort of official letter, some documentation to support that. I don't even know what government dept. would handle it here, I guess the States are different."

Dwight sat back with his mug. "Sure...that shouldn't be too complicated. It's all about covering your ass; especially when you're dealing with bureaucracy. Cover yours, cover theirs; and nobody thinks twice. I'll write your paperwork, if you can handle the rest of what you know. How soon?"

"Asap. I can't live with this situation any longer than necessary, you know? The sooner they are reunited, the better. Plus, there are people being hurt by Emeline's presence, wherever that lamb is at the moment. Your last guest is dead, and the new owner of that thing is in a psych ward at the moment. We really need to fix this."

Dwight thought that over in silence. The lawyer in him was telling him to drop it; their problem was solved now, why get messy again when it wasn't required? But he had experienced some very new concepts in the last few days, and being in the company of two rare individuals who never seemed to think of how things affected them personally, but rather; only of what needed to be done…well, he felt he owed them to see it through. Especially with one of them recuperating from helping them right here in his and Edith's own home. "Ok, Sam; I'm on it. I should have enough official-looking paperwork to snow them by this afternoon…is that soon enough?"

Sam nodded. "Thanks, that's perfect. And Dwight; I want to keep my brother out of this… He'd do anything for anyone, but he never knows when to quit."

"Understood, Sam. I've seen it. Now why don't you relax for a bit? Leave it to me. I'll let you know when the scenario is in place."

"Thanks, Dwight. In the meantime, I'm still going to try to track down the lamb. Even if it's not integral now, it still feels right to bring it home."

Dwight nodded himself. "Right. Guess we both have our orders for the day. I'll get back to you around noon. Let's keep that brother of yours in bed if we can, Sam. No reason you and I can't do this, and frankly; he looks pretty whupped to me."

"Yeah…I was thinking that myself. I don't suppose you have a straitjacket kicking around?"

Dwight laughed as Edith called Sam in to eat.

* * *

><p>"Um...Edith, you know I'm just one person, right?" he asked, daunted by the enormous spread she's set in front of him.<p>

"Do your best, dear." she smiled, patting his shoulder.

He did, and he surprised himself by consuming it all. Dwight headed out to do some business, and track down the information Sam would need for his charade. Sam offered to help with the dishes, but Edith sent him off to check on Dean.

He quietly entered the room, but Dean turned to him as he sat beside him. "Save any breakfast for me?"

"Nope. But trust me, she'll be up soon with enough for three of you. Are you awake for a bit?"

"Yeah."

"How are you feeling?

"Fine-..._ish_. When do you want to go do the Emeline thing?"

"Yeah...about that... Um, you're not invited. Dwight's out right now setting the scenario up. I'll go in with the ID and paperwork and dig her up myself. I don't need you there, it's just shovel-work." Sam winced slightly, expecting an argument.

Dean considered bitching just on the principle that Sam had the gall to give him direction. But he knew he was right; the two of them could handle that grunt-work and he was happy to leave it to them. "Ok, but I'm there for the burn, understood?" he growled.

Sam sighed with exasperation. "Dean; you don't need to be,. If we can get her remains here today there's no reason for you to come out. It's just simple salt & burn, and it's getting pretty cold out; you don't want to be in that wind."

"Just a _simple salt & burn_!" Dean mocked. "Yeah, nothing ever goes wrong with _those_. I'm not leaving that to you two amateurs; I'll probably find the two of you crisped down at the bottom of that hole. So I'm in on that, you got it?"

He was still awash with guilt, and that particular phrasing cut poor Sam to the quick. He reluctantly agreed.

On cue, Edith came in with her heaping tray. "Here you go, Dear. Now, I have to start the wash, so I'm putting young Sam here in charge. Sam; make sure he eats it all." She did it again; lifted Dean's chin and examined him closely. He reddened in embarrassment as Sam silently laughed. "Well, you look a little better...at least you have some colour. Now eat up." She smiled and left.

"Shut-up, you!" he growled at Sam.

* * *

><p>He ate in silence as Sam tried the Acadie hospital. This time he succeeded in getting the psychiatrist who was treating Kim Bellwood. At Sam's questions, the doctor repeated the party line, citing doctorpatient confidentiality.

"Sir; what if I told you I know why she's there? A little girl...white dress, crying…?"

"How do you know that?" he demanded.

"It's…complicated. But if you'd just let me talk to her, I know I can help her...please."

There was a brief pause. "No...no, I can't let you do that. We are trying to prove to her that this delusion is just that, and that she can work to eliminate it. If she hears from you that there's any perceived substance to it, she'll be taking steps backward in her recovery."

Sam sighed in frustration. "Look, I don't know if you know this; but the last person with this delusion killed himself several weeks ago. Kim is in danger. I know what she's seeing, and I know how to make it go away. Call it whatever you want; delusion, hallucination, whatever, but don't you think it's strange that three people have seen the exact same thing?"

"_Three_? Are you saying you have actually experienced this?" the doctor asked doubtfully.

Sam didn't admit to that…he hadn't after all. "I can describe her vision in perfect detail., if you want proof. And you can check on the other one, his name was Marc Grenier. He lived in Riviere du Loup. He saw that girl awake or asleep, until he couldn't take it anymore. He shot himself in his car. Please...let me talk to her."

Again there was a long pause. "Do it; describe the vision for me."

"Six year old girl. Blonde hair, white skin. Old fashioned white dress, with roses at the waist. Crying pitifully, maybe calling for her mother…"

There was a muffled exclamation at the other end. "Uncanny! How…how can you know that? How can you all know it?"

Sam was hardly going to divulge that level of detail; they'd be hauling _him_ away in a straitjacket too. "I...don't really know, sir. But if I could talk to her, I could help her understand it. How can it hurt, hearing from someone that made it through this?"

"This is very unusual. Very unorthodox… But from what you've told me, I just can't ignore it. If you stay on the line, I can have her brought to a phone. I'll be recording the call for treatment and research purposes. She is under medication; you may find it difficult to have a coherent conversation, she tends to drift."

"Thank-you, sir. I'll wait." Sam nodded to Dean, who was giving him hand signals, demanding an update. "He's getting her to a phone, but they're recording it. What do I do?"

"Shit, uh...I dunno. Just say what you were going to say. Nothing you could have said would have seemed any normal anyway, and this is probably your only shot."

Sam nodded, waiting. After ten minutes, a tired sounding woman came on.

"Kim?

"Yeah…who are you?"

" Kim, my name's Sam. I talked your docs into letting me speak to you. It's important, so don't freak out or hang-up, ok? Just hear me out."

"Um…okay." she said, sounding guarded.

"Kim, I know I'm a stranger to you, but listen to me, ok? I know what you've been seeing...I know why they think you need help. Kim?"

"Wha…what do you mean?"

"I mean your vision, Kim. The little white girl, the crying girl. I've seen her."

Kim burst into tears. She didn't speak for some time.

"Kim, please...I understand how you feel. She won't leave you alone. But I can help you; I can make her go away forever, ok? Believe me, Kim; I don't see her anymore. Let me help you, please…"

She sobbed in earnest now. Sam feared the doctor would step in and end the call.

"Tell me…tell me how. Please, Sam..."

-_poor thing_— "Ok; now I know you're a little drugged up, so you need to write this down. Can you get a pen and paper?"

"Yeah, wait." He heard sounds of someone handing them to her. "Ok."

"Good, Kim. Now listen, you're going to think I'm a crackpot, but trust me, I'm not."

She snorted at that. "I guess that's two of us then."

"No you're not, and neither am I. Now this is gonna be very weird, but you went to an auction at a storage unit, a couple of weeks ago. You brought something home, remember?"

"Oh my god, the statue...are you asking me about the little stone statue?"

"Yeah, Kim. The stone lamb. It's a grave marker, did you know that?"

"A grave…I just thought it was for a garden."

"It was a very old stone for a little girl named Emeline. It was stolen from here, in Nova Scotia, about eight months ago. Kim, it has to go back home. If it does, she'll be at peace and the vision will go away, understand?"

"Little girl…she's a... ghost… You're telling me she's... ohmygod, ohmygod!"

She trailed off, crying. After a moment, Sam heard another voice.

"I think that's enough. I don't know what you thought you were doing here, but you're sure as hell not helping anyone. Don't call again or I'll have it traced and call the police. And get yourself some professional help!" The phone line went dead.

"So?" Dean demanded.

"Aarrgh! I had her, Dean! She was right there, she believed me. But they cut me off, they think I'm either nuts or just cruel. _Shit!"_

"So call her back!"

"I can't. They won't put me through, they threatened to call the cops!"

"Hmm." Dean grunted. "Well, you tried your best Sam. We have this other thing we have to do anyway, it's not so important now."

"I guess…" Sam said, throwing his phone down on a chair in frustration. He was still convinced they had to bring it back. This was a lousy setback, especially since they were this close.

"Let it go, Sammy. Can't win'em all…and getting the daughter back here and dealt with will fix it all, right?"

"Sure...yeah. That's the important thing." Sam said. But the words felt hollow. The damned statue _was_ pivotal. He knew it deep within himself, he felt it with a certainty that wasn't his own. He just didn't know _why_.


	13. Chapter 13

NEXT

Dwight returned at his expected time. He sought out Sam and showed him what he'd managed to arrange. "Ok, son, I think we have all the bases covered. You are an epidemiologist from U of Toronto; you're researching outbreak trends of certain pathogens in the early periods of Canadian settlement, concentrating currently on Yellow fever out breaks. You need tissue samples from early victims for DNA analysis. You need confirmed cases, cases that are recorded in archival material. You need youthful victims to do dental pulp analysis of first teeth, -to correlate analysis of chemistry with known living conditions, regional factors blah blah blah. And you need to exhume a body fitting those parameters, and guess who's fits?"

"Wow, Dwight, that's thorough. You sure you don't want to keep doing this sort of thing ?"

Dwight snorted. "Uh, no thank-you. I've seen the toll it takes on you. I'm a little old to take that kind of abuse." It was Sam's turn to laugh wryly. Dwight handed him a sheaf of papers that pertained to his so-called research. "Here you go; letters from the all the necessary concerns, Ministry of Consumer Affairs; don't ask me why they're in charge of graves...Ministry of Health; the Feds in charge of epidemiology, pandemics... National Archives, Anglican Church of Canada and NS, it's all here. What are you going to do about ID?"

"Um, well, Dean and I have a system that can produce anything we need. As long as I can download the logos and whatever, we can produce something decently believable."

"Good. I was wondering how to get around that. Now, the person to start with would be the warden for that parish in charge of the cemetery; I have the contact here. Next, you need to inform the local law, which I've already done, so you don't get questioned when some busybody reports somebody grave-robbing."

"Man, you _are_ handy. "

"Yeah, well, I'm a lawyer; I cover the bases. Oh, and I bought a mini tent structure; the kind people store their snowmobiles and winter equipment in. You can put it up over the grave while you're digging. It should keep the rain or the curious out."

Sam raised his eyebrows with admiration. He'd never dug a grave under such safe conditions. Certainly not in daylight. And shelter, no less.

Dwight continued, "So you; you're in charge of digging up and transporting anything disgusting, providing your own fake ID, and figuring out the directions for the tent-structure.."

"Ah, the catch. Does it come with diagrams?"

* * *

><p>A few hours later; fresh ID in pocket, and suit pressed and donned, Sam presented himself to the Warden of the Annapolis Anglican Parish. The poor man was suitably impressed and alarmed. <em>An exhumation? Yellow fever? Impact on tour revenues? <em>Sam reassured him it would be quick and quiet. And immediate. He was well armed by late afternoon. Not with paperwork; that was fully covered, thanks to Dwight's efforts.. Instead, he'd figured out the tent directions, gathered his digging tools, and proceeded to little Emmy's grave. He wasn't without his entourage; he had a small group of officious and curious onlookers, mostly from the church, and a few from the city. Dwight kept them in line. Once Sam had the tent up over the grave, he made sure no one stuck their head in.

The digging was predictable. Two hundred years of settled soil. Plus the well- established and tangled root systems of several centuries-old trees. It took Sam hours beyond what he'd expected. By the time he'd hit what sounded like hollow wood, it was evening. Dwight sat at the edge of the hole. He'd have helped dig, but with his cast—he was just a little too hindered. He was happy to watch and run interference.

"Ok." Sam said, taking a break for some water and to stretch. "I think we finally have it here."

Dwight peered down into the hole. There was indeed a small, wooden coffin there, half obscured still, by the soil. He looked apprehensively to Sam.

"Just a little longer." He isolated the rotted structure from the surrounding dirt, and again switched to a finer tool, prying the lid free. Dwight fetched the large plastic storage bin he'd purchased for this, setting it down at the edge.

The little figure lay as it should. She was reduced to slender bone. Her fine blonde hair was long gone, as were the roses that were so intrinsic to her. Fragments of her dress lay undisturbed over her tiny frame, enough to suggest that it was indeed the pretty garment she wore in the painting. Sam searched carefully, finding no bottle this time. There was nothing but her sad little remains. He removed them carefully, thoroughly, and placed them in the container, sealing it tightly. Dwight took the box from his hands and carried them to his vehicle. Sam began the simpler task of refilling the grave. That was done quickly and he replaced the sod he'd carefully saved at the beginning, and it looked almost undisturbed. He dismantled his shelter, nodded to his handful of onlookers, and joined Dwight and Emeline in the truck. It was a quiet ride back to the rose cottage.

Dwight parked in the driveway. "Are we going to burn the remains now?" he asked.

Sam shook his head. "I sure would like to, but I had to promise Dean that we wouldn't unless he was there. He'd freak if we went ahead without him." Sam opened the door and collected the box from the back.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Dwight asked.

"No, I'm just going to place it in the bottom of Hannah's grave for now. It'll be safe there. We can go get Dean and do it later." He closed the door and carried the box around the house, and followed their path through the long grass to the back. He crouched at the edge for a moment, feeling the need to say something."Hannah, wherever you are, and Emeline...we'll reunite you soon. You'll never be lonely again. We'll be back later, please be patient." He felt a little silly, saying it out loud, but he felt better too. He took the box and lowered it into the hole, dropping it as gently as he could the last foot or so. That done, he rejoined Dwight and they returned to Edith's.

* * *

><p>Edith was worried. "Well, how did it go?" she demanded.<p>

"Problem free, Aunt Edith. We'll take care of things later, we have the little girl's remains in Hannah's grave pit right now. "

She urged them to wash up, supper was on the table. Sam headed down to talk to Dean, but he wasn't in his room. He checked, and he was in the can, having a shower. Sam was glad; obviously he was feeling a little better.

He knocked on the door.

"Occupied!" the voice barked.

"Obviously. Are you almost done? Edith wants us to come to dinner."

"Yeah, coming."

A few minute later a freshened Dean emerged. "Well, I see you're here and not in some lock-up. I guess your dig went ok?"

"Mmm hmm. She's already in the grave hole, ready and waiting. Hurry up and get dressed, dinner's on."

* * *

><p>The four had a hearty but quiet dinner. They all knew what was transpiring afterward, and it made for a solemn mood. After thanking Edith for her usual exuberant efforts in the kitchen, they gathered what they needed to complete the task. Dean made sure to dress warmly; not so much as a precaution for his own health as much as to avoid being re-dressed and fussed over by both Sam and Edith. He was gradually learning how to accommodate people instead of trying to steam-roller them. As they stood at the door, waiting for the car to warm up, Edith came into the hall with a handful of flowers. They were roses, miniature ones. She'd clipped them off her plants in her kitchen window box.<p>

"Please, boys...put these with her." she said. She turned and left, her characteristic crinkly smile absent this time.

"It's been hard on her." Dwight said. They understood.

The ride back to the Rose cottage was brief. They exited the car and carried the means for the burn to the grave side.

"Do we burn the plastic box too then?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. Unless you want to go down there and dump it. I know it sucks for the environment and all that crap, but hey; priorities."

Sam nodded. He really didn't want to have to do that. Every displacement, every disturbance of her remains felt hurtful and insensitive. And he wanted her to believe that they cared about her, that their purpose was to reunite her with her mother.

* * *

><p>The sun was very close to disappearing below the horizon. It made the wind bite with an icy insistence. Dean pulled his coat closer around his neck and ears. "Ok. It's time. Sam; you wanna do the honours?"<p>

Sam dumped his box of salt into the bin, coating the little bones. Next came the kerosene. He handed the match to Dwight. "Thought you might want to do it, as a relative." he said.

Dwight nodded. He didn't, but it seemed fitting. "Be with your mum, Emeline." he said softly, striking it and dropping it into the bin.

The kerosene flared, casting a warm glow throughout the grave pit. The storage bin began to melt, curling in on itself, losing shape until it reached its flash point. It burned, throwing up an acrid black smoke. The two brothers watched silently, as did Dwight, as the fragile, tiny bones slowly fell into ashes. It seemed anticlimactic.

"Well, guess that's it." Dean said, standing and pulling his coat tighter.

"Hope so." Sam agreed. "Ready to go, Dwight?"

They both turned to the older man, who thus far had said nothing.

"Dwight?"

Dwight stood, rigid with obvious horror. His eyes were wide open, focused on some distant point that only he saw. His mouth hung open and he began to shake his head. He fell to his knees then, clutching his ears. Dean was nearest, he grasped the older man by the shoulders and pulled him up, trying to snap him out of his trance.

"What is it? C'mon, Dwight, what's wrong?" Dean shook him a little, trying to jolt him back to the present. But Dwight just shook his head, and tried harder to block out some sound that neither brother could hear. Stymied, Dean looked to Sam for help.

"Dwight, we're here, tell us what's wrong!"

"Can't you hear it?" he asked finally, incredulous and turning his shocked gaze to Sam. His expression was one of pure emotional agony.

"Hear what?" Dean demanded.

"The screaming! The little girl, Emeline, she's...she's screaming!"

"Do you see her?"

"No…no, only her voice, wailing so terribly! Oh lord, Dean, what have we done? What have I done?"

"Shit, Sam, it didn't work, something's wrong!" He grabbed Dwight and pulled him back, away from the gravesite. The two of them got the stricken man back into the car and Sam drove quickly back to the house. Dwight was barely able to turn his attention to moving his feet, his senses so filled with the piteous sound.

* * *

><p>Edith met them at the door, squinting with concern. "All finished?" she asked.<p>

Dean shook his head as he steered her shaken nephew into the parlour, and sat him down. "Edith, get some brandy!" he ordered tersely. She did so, as Dean held the sides of Dwight's face and looked at him. "Dwight, do you hear me?" Dwight nodded. "Do you still hear her now?" He nodded again, tears welling from his eyes.

"I know this is an awful thing, but can you describe it? What started it?" Edith came with the strong drink and Dean held it to the poor man's lips until he's swallowed a good couple of ounces.

His voice quavered and became a whisper. "When I dropped the match, when her bones caught fire, I heard the child shriek...as if…as if in abject terror. Not pain, but emotional, like she suddenly found herself in some fearful place and she doesn't know which direction to turn for comfort. God, it's filling my head, she keeps going!"

Dean caught Sam's eye. –_the lamb_. Sam was right, there _was_ more to it than just sentimentality; they had to get it back now. "Sam, can you get him to his room?" Dean asked. Sam nodded and guided Dwight down the hall.

"What's wrong with him, what happened out there?" Edith demanded, fear in her eyes.

Dean rubbed his forehead. "Not sure yet, Edith. There's some element missing here, it should have been the end of it. Dwight's hearing her voice, she's afraid for some reason, she didn't get released. I don't know what's going on."

"But why him? Why does he hear and not you?"

"I...I'm not sure. Maybe because it was Dwight who dropped the match…maybe because he's blood, I just don't know."

"Well find out, you hear? " she said sharply. "You boys must fix this! The poor man, to be so anguished! I haven't seen him so unhappy since…" She trailed off and broke down.

Dean enveloped her tiny frame, comforting her. "Edith; Sam and I will find the solution, I promise. And I think we know where to look. It's going to be ok, but I need you to stay strong for Dwight, alright? He's going to need you."

She pulled away and wiped at her eyes, nodding. "Oh, I don't understand this strange business at all….this isn't what I learned in church!" she sniffled, feeling more than a little betrayed and abandoned by the heavens at the moment.

Sam returned. "Can I give Dwight a sedative, Edith? Is he taking anything else right now?"

"No—no, that's fine. Do you have something like that..? We don't have any such thing in the house at present…only the brandy and Dwight's hidden stash of whiskey."

" I have something from a doctor friend of ours. It's a strong painkiller, but it'll put him right out."

"Oh…good, I think that's best.."

* * *

><p>The brothers stayed until Dwight was clearly relaxed and sleeping.<p>

"Edith," Dean said, "Sam and I have to drive to Fredericton. We know that we'll find the stone lamb there. We're not sure why yet, but it still seems to be the key to making this all right again.. There's no other angle to this, at least none that we can see. Might take us a day or two to find it."

"I see…alright, you know best. You think the little girl is still connected to that statue then? And if it comes home…?" She left the rest unspoken.

Sam nodded. "It has to be it, Edith. It's what started this all in the first place. We found out that after the guy who stole it died, it was sold to a woman in Fredericton, and she started seeing the figure of the girl; it put her in a mental ward. I spoke to her, but her doctor cut the call short before I could get her to arrange sending it back here. And when we decided to dig up Emeline and do it that way, getting the lamb back didn't seem as important anymore. I guess it was, though."

"Well, I thank you boys, for doing this. I don't know what we'd do if you didn't take this on…When will you go?"

"Now, tonight. Just have to grab a few things, then we'll head out." Dean said.

"Let me pack you some sandwiches and thermoses." She didn't wait for an answer, but shuffled off to her kitchen sanctuary.

Sam sprinted off and loaded a bag with a few things, remembering Dean's prescription. When he was finished he joined Dean in the front hall. Edith returned with an enormous sack of provisions.

"We're only going for two days max, Edith." Sam smiled.

"Well, you never know. And besides, this is much better than anything you would get through those fast food windows. Now Dean, you stay out of the cold, you hear? And Sam, for heaven's sake, be careful!"

They mumbled their "yes, Ma'ams". She pecked each of them on the cheek and they headed out to the car. Dean shivered in the passenger seat, waiting for the Impala to warm up. -_c'mon baby, daddy's home—turn up the heat_-

"Oh, I'd better give her a cell number." Sam remembered. He went back in, wrote his number on a sheet of paper, and gave it to her. "Call us at any time, Edith. And those pills are on Dwight's nightstand, the dosage is on the bottle. Keep him sleeping if he's too distressed, we'll be back as soon as we can."

"Yes, dear, thank-you." she said in a small voice.

He squeezed her little old hand and returned to the car.


	14. Chapter 14

NEXT

"You still have that direction sheet?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, somewhere in my stuff, or in the laptop case, do you mind looking around for it?"

Dean turned around in his seat to root around in the back, but he instantly regretted the motion. "Maybe when we stop. I'll need a coffee soon anyway."

A half hour later, Sam pulled into the drive-through lane of the Tim Horton's and ordered their caffeine fix, plus some crullers. For a moment, Dean thought Sam was pranking him, they were like eating balls of damp kleenex, but there was enough sugar on them that it was still a good thing. After parking and finishing their snack, Sam found the directions.

"So I guess we have two choices," Dean mused, "We can wait 'til morning and try to get in to see her at that hospital; probably have to fake a relationship to her, and convince her to give the lamb to us, or we can break into her place and just go get the damn thing. What do you want to do?"

Sam thought for a moment. It was always his inclination to do things the correct, or at least less illegal way. But Dwight was suffering now, and time was precious. If they couldn't find the lamb in her house, they could try the other avenue. It was a good choice; he had no way of knowing that poor Kim Belwood had been heavily sedated when Emeline's plaintive crying had suddenly turned to screams.

"Break in and get it."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Huh...I would've lost that bet!"

"Yeah, yeah; but in this case I think it'd be quicker. And with Dwight in the middle of it..."

"Mmm. So how much longer now?"

"What are you, six? That's like the third time you've asked me that. We just went over the provincial border, so it'll still be a few hours. If you're tired, or bored, just go crash in the back for a while."

It was actually neither. True, he was jealous; he hadn't felt up to driving for the past while and he missed it, but the reality was, the pain in his back was too damned sharp to ignore…more than he'd ever admit; and his baby may have classic good looks but her seats were like sitting in a diner booth for hours on end. It was the only concession he'd ever make towards modern cars; their seats were a hell of a lot softer. He remembered those plush velvety seats of Bobby's minivan fondly at the moment. A guilty little secret he'd never reveal. Dean thought out loud. "We'll get to Fredericton while it's still dark, then. That's good. Since we don't know what kind of house or neighbourhood she lives in, we don't know how close the nosy neighbours are. Don't want to get arrested, at this point."

"Or ever." Sam thought about Dwight, and the discussion he'd had. "Dean...Dwight talked about some things, before this latest crap. He, uh…he told me that you…said a lot of stuff, while you were sick. Stuff about...well _everything_."

Dean was instantly wary and defensive. "Yeah? So? I had a burning high fever, for shit's sakes there was nothing I could do about it, ok?"

"No, I'm not blaming you! Geez, smooth your freaking hackles down!"

Dean frowned and crossed his arms. "Well what then?"

"Well, _this_. Because of what he learned, Dwight knows a lot about some of the legal crap you're in. And since he's a lawyer, and we did this thing for Edith and him; he wants to start working on a defense, for you, for us...in case we ever need it."

"Oh. Well that's...something " Mollified, he thought about that a little more. "So he thinks we could have some sort of shot at beating some of this?"

"Well, he never said that exactly. He thought he'd start collecting all the info he could, to start planning. You know, he's really well respected. It blew me away, I thought he was just, you know...Dwight."

"Sam! I'm surprised at you! You know, you're just way too judgmental."

Sam just rolled his eyes. "Seriously, what do you think of that?"

Dean sighed heavily. "Well, I don't know. I mean, on paper it sounds great…but shit, Sam, he could be the most freaking brilliant lawyer on the planet, it's not gonna change much. I still have a dead girl in St. Louis that'll say I killed her. I still can't ever go on the stand and just explain it all… I mean, hell, if he wants to give it a shot, that's pretty damn good of him. But I really don't think he knows what he's signing on for."

"Actually, I think he has a pretty good idea. Now he just needs all the facts and dates. You educated him pretty thoroughly when you were sick."

Again Dean fidgeted in discomfort. He hated the idea that he could be such a bloody open book when his temp shot up a few degrees. He felt completely, stupidly vulnerable, and he thrived on control. It destroyed any sense of confidence he had that he could keep a lid on things. Especially when it turned bad, as things were in the habit of doing.

"Better make sure you tape my mouth shut next time that happens, then. Don't want my big yap burying us."

Sam ignored that. He was clinging to his deluded hope that maybe there wouldn't be a next time. "Dean...he said something else. He said that you got really upset about...taking me out of school, and stuff."

Dean said nothing. He just turned and stared out the window.

"Dean...I wish you would believe me when I tell you it was my choice, and nothing you did."

"Just drop it, Sam."

* * *

><p>They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, until Sam turned the conversation to a safer direction. "Dean, what do you think is behind the way this lamb thing has been going? I mean, we've never seen this before; the connection, so strong with an object. I thought the burn would break whatever bonds were in place but obviously that's wrong."<p>

Dean chewed his lip, and exhaled slowly. "Yeah, and the whole burial-bottle thing. Hannah must have been so screwed up by her daughter's death, she must have looked for some sort of magic, or something to bind her to Emeline. It's weird…never saw that before. And obviously the lamb is involved in the spell, or whatever you want to call it."

"Yeah…seems like it. God I hope Dwight can keep it together until we can fix it."

"He will." Dean coughed, hugging his arm to his side with a groan.

"Still sore, huh?"

"Yeah, some. I might just crash for a bit in back if you don't mind, Sam. We don't know what we'll be dealing with in the next bit. I guess I should be as ready as I can."

"No problem." Sam encouraged, hiding his concern. He pulled over and waited while Dean got himself arranged in the back seat. It worried him; he knew Dean hated being in the back, chauffeured like some pansy, as he'd put it. "Want a sleeping bag? I can pull one out of the trunk."

"No, I'm good." He shrugged his coat off and balled it up for a makeshift pillow.

"Ok, I'll wake you for the next coffee break."

"Uh huh."

The relentless pain, and the illness, tired him quickly; Dean drifted off immediately. Sam could see he was cold. He was shivering; coughing and frowning in his sleep. He cranked the heat, and pulled off his own jacket and tucked it over him. Satisfied that his brother was a bit more comfortable, he searched and found a decently current radio station, keeping the sound low. On the quiet, dark and empty road, with the soothing rhythm of something pleasing on the radio, he could almost believe it was all ok.

* * *

><p>Sam finally stopped in the outskirts of Fredericton. He gently shook Dean awake and looked over his directions. It seemed clear enough. He guessed by the fact that her house was on a cul-de-sac, and the street had one of those lame builder's names, that it was probably a fairly modern subdivision. Which meant houses close together. And hopefully she didn't have a dog in the house, it was going to be tricky enough to pull this off.<p>

Dean got back into the passenger seat, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Better?" Sam asked.

"I guess. Only now I'm just dozy. I really need another coffee first."

Sam found the thermos Edith had packed, handing it to him along with the directions. "Ok, here; read these, and memorize them. I don't want to drive with the light on in here, somebody will notice."

Dean read them over a few times, until he had it.

"Got your kit?" Sam asked, making sure the burglar's tools were handy.

"Always. You didn't happen to pack my .38, did you?

"No, I couldn't. Dwight put all that stuff away somewhere so Edith wouldn't see it. I forgot to ask him where, and later he was just too freaked. Anyway, if we do hit trouble, I'd just as soon not Butch & Sundance our way out of it.''

"Yeah, well...I just feel safer when it's handy."

Sam shrugged. After some time meandering around the neighbourhood, the address matching her number loomed ahead in the dark. Sam pulled into the driveway, unhappy that his prediction was right, and worse; it was a row of townhouses. They couldn't even do a quick search around the outside of the place for the lamb as the backyard was accessible only through the house.

"Ok Houdini, you're on."

Sam stood beside as Dean deftly made short work of the lock. There didn't seem to be a security system; at least nothing obvious. They shut the door behind them silently, and used flashlights to scan the hall. Nothing lamb-shaped was evident. She had a lot of houseplants; all in various stages of drying up. Indoor plants creeped Dean out, they were like little green prisoners, all living or dying at the hand and whim of their captor. They walked around the rooms on the first floor, searching, and finding nothing. Dean went upstairs to check the bedrooms, while Sam went to the basement. They both came up empty.

"Check the garage." Dean said. "I'll go outside to the yard and see if I trip over it." He didn't use his flashlight out there; it would look too suspicious. He cursed the fact that there was cloud cover this night; it was as dark as pitch and nobody had a back porch light on. He literally shuffled back and forth, hoping to find it by touch. Sam joined him, having found the garage to be empty. "How's your night vision?" Dean whispered, crouched now and running his hands through the frost–wilted flower beds. He found a concrete rabbit...a cast-metal pagoda, full of spider webs...a gnome. Sam was at the other side of the deck, doing the same. He too, found a collection of tacky statuary, but one of them felt rougher, heavy, and had leathery, flaking bits that he could scrape off with his nail. _Lichen_. He ran his hands over it, his mind giving him the outline they sought.

It was the lamb.

He called over to Dean in a hoarse whisper. Dean stood up, and headed in his direction. He couldn't see the bird bath in his path; he bowled it over and cursed out loud as he landed on his hands and knees. So far they'd managed to avoid drawing attention, but that yelped epithet roused several dogs from their sleep, and a chorus of barks filled the night quiet. They heard one in particular lunging at the end of its chain; it rattled and sang every time the dog strained against its limit.

The sound suddenly changed; there was a splintering noise of wood being wrenched free, and the growling sounded progressively louder. Sam didn't wait to report his success, he scooped up the heavy stone marker and sprinted back into the house, not stopping until he had exited the front door again. He threw a frantic glance back for Dean, as he popped the trunk and dumped the lamb into it's cavernous space. Dean hadn't come through behind him. He swore, and re-entered the house as several porch lights switched on along the street.

Dean wasn't in the house. The patio doors were still wide open and he could hear sounds of deep growling and struggling in the dark yard.

"Dean, where are you?"

* * *

><p>Dean was busy dealing with the snapping incisors of the big shepherd mix that had pulled free from it's tether. He had one hand gripping it's collar, trying to pry it's snarling face off his other wrist. The chain it was towing was tangled around his feet and he couldn't get up, let alone get away from it. Compounding matters was the slight red glow he could see in the distance, and his panic rose a notch; the red flashing light could only mean a cruiser.<p>

"Sam! DOG!"

Sam scrambled in the dark until he'd pulled the chain loose, yelling "GIT!" and giving the dog a solid boot in the rump. That was authoritative enough to convince it, and it yelped and fled back through the adjoining yards. He grabbed Dean's hand, hauled him up, and they stumbled back through the house to the Impala.

"You hear a siren?" Dean panted, looking over his shoulder as Sam reversed, and floored it with a squeal.

"Yeah." Sam said breathlessly. "Tell me where to turn!"

* * *

><p>They took a route as far away from the strobing blue and red lights as possible, and got back out to the highway without being chased. Sam drove like a little old lady from that point on, praying that they wouldn't attract any official attention, and that no one had given a description of the car.<p>

"Holy crap, that was close! And please tell me you got the damned thing, and not some freaking cement smurf or something!" Dean said, shaken from the experience, his heart still pounding hard in his throat.

"Safe in the trunk. Oh, and nice job waking up every stupid dog in the area! Were you a little unclear on the whole stay-quiet thing?"

"Bite me! And who puts a freaking bird bath in the middle of nowhere? I was lucky that thing wasn't just a little taller or it could have been a _real_ tragedy!" He rubbed his bruised thigh and started to laugh. The relief flooded through him; he didn't even realize how tense he was until he felt it subside. Sam shook his head, and he couldn't help but laugh himself. Pretty soon both were in fits.

"Ok, ok stop it, or I'll piss myself!" Dean groaned, wiping tears from his eyes. Sam chortled a few more times.

And the reality hit them. At last, they had the lamb. Now, finally, it could all be put right. Emeline's terror would end and she would join her mother. Hannah would never again be alone and Dwight would be rid of the terrible screaming that robbed him of any peace. And maybe, under Edith's green thumb, the roses would bloom again at Rose Cottage.

* * *

><p>They stopped at the Welcome center for Nova Scotia, and took some of Edith's sandwiches out. They were, as always, delicious. Her coffee was pure acid, but other than that, the woman could cook.<p>

"Let's have a look at it." Dean said. He was curious. They'd seen the fuzzy photo, but now that they had the real McCoy in the trunk.

"Sure—hang on."

Sam went out and opened the trunk, lifting the heavy and precious thing out and placing it on the back seat. The two of them examined it in the light of the Impala's dome light.

"Hmm. Pretty typical child's monument." Dean said. He had a fairly good knowledge of the grave stone-carving traditions of old America. He'd seen enough of them. It was locally quarried grey marble, crudely fashioned into the shape of a recumbent lamb, and now weathered to such a degree as to have most of the finer features smoothed away. Edith was right, there was no name or inscription visible. The lichen peeled away from it's surface, adding to it's mantle of age. Here was something so firm and hard and tangible, slowly falling victim to the ravages of time, and yet the spirit it represented was still as pained and fresh and raw as the day it left the corporeal world. That was irony, if ever there was any.

Sam turned it over. There, on the bottom, barely visible through the encrustation, was a pattern that suggested words. There _was_ an inscription, after all; hidden all along. He brushed the clinging dirt from the shallow engraving."In aice liom, a uainín, ní bhíonn tú caillte riamh"

Dean snorted, annoyed. It looked like gibberish, it didn't shed any light on things. "Latin?" he speculated, doubtfully. "It doesn't even look like real words."

Sam read it over several times. "I don't think it's latin, at least from what I know of it… I think it might be Gaelic or something."

Had it been Latin, they could have simply translated it online through one of many sites. Or called Bobby, for that matter…he was as good an expert as any. But Gaelic was a different matter. It was too complex, too subject to impassioned and subjective translation; they'd need a living, breathing speaker of the old language. At least in Nova Scotia, with its history, they had some chance of finding someone like that. This had to be resolved; who knew what the significance might be... They'd come so far, seen and felt so much, that they had to learn it's meaning. Sam lifted the lamb back into the trunk. Under the dome light, he saw for the first time the result of Dean's tangling with the dog. His sleeve was torn and bloodied.

"Don't you even feel that?" he asked, horrified.

"What, this? It's nothing, Sam; a couple of scratches. Relax!"

Dean hid his wrist behind his back. Sam pulled it back into the light, frowning while he examined it. "Well I hope that freaking wolf had rabies shots at least!" He retrieved their well-used med kit, and proceeded to clean and bandage the puncture marks that encircled Dean's forearm..

"Thanks, Ma." he grinned, mockingly.

Sam couldn't win. But he knew it, he was used to it. He had long since gotten over that aspect of looking after his brother. "You get bit anywhere else?"

"Yeah, " he snorted. "But you'd have to buy me dinner and flowers if you want to see."

"Uh, no, I'm good, thanks."

* * *

><p>Sam resumed the dull drive. He wasn't sleepy, he was still adrenalin-charged. And he could have taken the wheel for the entire trip, if the circumstances had been different..<p>

But they had changed. Sam had been in physical contact with the lamb statue repeatedly, it just happened that Dean hadn't. He suddenly braked and swerved to the shoulder of the road, far too abruptly for Dean's comfort.

"What? What is it, a deer or something?" Dean demanded, turning on the light overhead.

Sam was staring straight ahead. His face was blanched white. "You have to drive, now!"


	15. Chapter 15

_"What? What is it, a deer or something?" Dean demanded._

_"You have to drive- now.."_

NEXT

"Well...sure, ok. But what's the problem?"

"I see her... I see Emeline. She's right in front of me, Dean. She's got her arms over her face, covering her eyes, she's ...she's just _wailing_!"

Dean looked Sam over, worried. It seemed that once the lamb was transferred from Kim Bellwood's care and into theirs, Emeline followed. He realized that it was only Sam who'd lifted it, and Sam who'd turned it over to read the inscription…and Sam who returned it to the trunk. She was now his wraith, his burden.

"Sam, are you ok? Can you handle this?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah…yeah, I'm ok... I mean, I know what it is and that we're gonna fix it...but christ!" He kept staring, wide-eyed, at some place that only he could see.

* * *

><p>And somewhere, in a quiet hospital bed, Kim Bellwood stopped crying. The sounds and visions that had driven her to this wrecked state suddenly quieted. She stared at her surroundings in awe, for the first time in ages she was bathed in new and blessed silence.<p>

* * *

><p>Dean took the last two hour shift. -<em>Wasn't so bad<em>- He felt stiff, and a little achy, but it was a balm to his soul to be behind the wheel again. Sam and he drained the last of Edith's bitter coffee and devoured the rest of her packed food. That would have pleased her. But other than that, it was a silent and solemn drive.

"So...what now, Dean? Do we go to the cottage or the house?"

"Whatever you want; hell, you're the one seeing her, and I guess it also depends on how Dwight is doing. If he's asleep, we can crash 'til morning and take the lamb over then. But if he's struggling against hearing her, we might want to get it done asap. And for your sake too, even if it's still dark."

"Yeah. Man..." Sam said, softly. "I can see how this would drive them nuts, Dean… No matter where I look, she's there, suffering, screaming… It's awful...really awful!"

"Ok, that answers it. We'll go right out to the Rose Cottage. I'm not waiting any longer to fix this!"

Sam offered no argument, he stared ahead, having little choice but to witness the pain and panic felt by the spirit of that little girl.

Throughout the remaining drive, Dean repeatedly asked Sam how he was doing. Sam always answered that he was ok, always in the same distracted and distant way. It unnerved Dean, knowing that it was his brother who now carried the damaging burden of Emeline's extreme distress. If he wasn't worried about getting pulled over, he'd have floored it the rest of the trip. But finally they arrived at the cottage. Dean wanted to call Edith and Dwight, to let them know what was happening, but it was so late. Edith at least would be asleep, and he didn't want to be responsible for giving her a heart attack.

They sat for a moment in the driveway. "Ready, Sam? This should be it."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, let's do it. I'll carry it."

He opened the trunk and lifted the lamb out, and the two of then headed out back to Hannah's stone.

"What time is it, anyway?" Sam asked.

Dean looked at his watch. "Three thirty five."

The long, wind swept grass caught his feet, and Sam stumbled with the heavy stone. Dean struggled to help him, taking half the weight.

"No, Dean; it's not that it's heavy, it's more that I can't see directly in front of me. She's there where ever I focus; I can't see past her."

"Oh." He had no way to help that. He let go of the stone, letting Sam carry it again. Instead, he walked beside him, hand on his shoulder, guiding him over the grassy yard towards the grave pit. When they reached the spot, Dean illuminated Hannah's stone with a flashlight, finding the barren patch of ground beside it.

"Well, that's where it was. Christ, if this doesn't do it, Sam; I don't know what the hell to try."

Sam grunted his grim agreement and carefully placed the stone back onto the ground from which it had been separated.

They both stood back, nervously awaiting some sort of indication that this was all that was needed, that this last piece completed the unhappy puzzle, and the image was whole again.

* * *

><p>Nothing changed.<p>

"Sam...is she gone? Did anything happen?"

Sam sat in the dirt and covered his eyes. "No…no, she's still here, still the same."

_"Nothing's_ different?" Dean demanded in thinly veiled frustration.

Sam shook his head miserably. "I can still see her, Dean; like she's right here, even when I close my eyes. She's so scared...so sad. I can't…I can't stand to look at it anymore, but I can't tune it out."

Dean had enough. Gripped with impotent rage, he howled a curse. He was so sure they had it this time; all this effort and risk and pain for nothing...and Sam was now cursed with the presence of that miserable wraith. And Sam was the worst person to suffer this; he was so freaking soft and sensitive and _empathetic_- Dean looked around wildly in his fury and he turned his gaze back to the stone lamb, grinding out his anger. He kicked it hard, knocking it over with a shower of dirt.

"F~ck! he coughed, dropping to sit in the dirt beside his stricken brother. He said it a few more times, and when his rage was spent, he sat, dejected; trying to ignore his aching toe. They sat in silence for some time, until the cold started to seep into their bones.

Finally, Dean stood up stiffly, dusting the damp soil from his backside. "Well…I've got nothing. Let's go, Sam. I'm beat...we can figure this out in the morning.. You can dope yourself to sleep at least."

Sam stood and silently followed Dean back to the car, and they drove back to Edith's.

* * *

><p>The house was dark and silent, except for some muffled moaning, as poor Dwight battled Emeline's image in his dreams. Sam headed to his room as Dean slipped into Dwight's room and retrieved the bottle of sedative. He looked at the sleeping man for a moment, wondering just how long they could safely medicate the visions and sounds away for the two of them. He sighed, exhausted, and returned to Sam.<p>

Sam accepted the two pills without resistance. He too, was exhausted, and he needed respite from Emeline's drama for a while. He swallowed them with the water Dean brought, giving him a thumbs-up. Dean patted him on the shoulder and made his way to his own bed.

* * *

><p>Tired of waiting for sleep, Dean hauled himself out of bed at 6:30 He shivered in the cold of the room, Edith turned the thermostat low when she turned in, and the old house was chilly at night. It didn't matter while you were sleeping, if you were so lucky. Edith had each bed outfitted with a warm goose-down duvet, but you froze your nethers off when you left it's zone of toasty comfort. He dressed quickly and made his way downstairs.<p>

Edith was up, as was her fashion. She already had the coffee perking, and was surprised to see him up so early. He sat down at the table and she brought him a big steaming mug. He hunched over its warmth appreciatively, wrapping his hands around it.

She knew. The trip hadn't ended in success; his body language fairly screamed that. She sat down across from him, her own favourite chipped, floral cup in hand. "Tell me, dear…" she prodded gently. "I don't see your easy smile...it didn't go as we'd hoped, did it?"

He sighed, and rubbed his hand over his hair, meeting her eyes. "No…no it didn't. We got it, Edith...the lamb. It's back in it's place, just as it always was. The bodies are salted and burned. It should be good now…everybody should be at peace now, but they aren't. At least Emeline isn't, and Dwight's still hearing her; I could hear him moaning in his sleep. And now Sam _sees_ her...I just don't know what the hell's the key that's missing here. I just...I can't figure it out!"

She could see his weariness: his posture telegraphed his pain. She put a tiny, warm hand over his. "Augh, Dean, you poor dear. You carry it all, don't you? I know enough about you to have the faith that you will make this right, for all of them. We just have to think this through some more; you and I. Those boys are to stay in bed; I think you'll agree that they are much better off sleeping, and away from that child's grief. Now; I'll fix you a good, hot breakfast, and while I am doing that, you start thinking about any details you may have thought unimportant before. There will be something; some new pattern, some little detail… Here; here's my bridge pad and pen, just start writing. Just dump your tired brain out onto that paper and we'll take a fresh look at it, alright?"

He nodded, rubbing his eyes. She was right, it was a good idea. He started writing. At first, it was a point by point description of all the events; he tried to leave nothing out. Then he wrote descriptions of everything he'd dealt with or handled in the process; the gravestone of Hannah's, the remains, her dress, her painted image...the bottle and its contents. He did the same for Emeline. He wrote everything he knew of the lamb; as much as he'd remembered, as he'd seen it so briefly.

She laid out their breakfast as he sat mulling over his list. "Eat now. Put that aside until after. You can't forge ahead without proper fuel."

They ate in silence, and he apologized for not finishing the giant portion she'd given him; under normal circumstances he'd have had no trouble. Edith replenished their coffee and sat beside him. She saw the bandaged dog bite, and sighed unhappily. "You were injured; bringing home the lamb." It wasn't a question, just an observation. He shrugged. She watched him in silence. "Dean...why do you and you brother do this? Dwight sort of told me it's roots…the white-washed, suitable-for-old-women version, of course. But…you've been at it so long…long enough to come to harm more often than most would in a bitter lifetime. When will you stop and live for yourself…? Where can you call _home_, dear?"

He was silent; caught off-guard by the directness and concern from her. He shook his head slightly, staring at the coffee steaming in front of him. "Home….was a long time, and a long way away, Edith. It's not really a concept for me. Sam needs it, and it's my job to get him to wherever he should be, safe. My Dad gave me that responsibility from early on; he was too busy fighting his own demons after my mother was killed.. But in the meantime, we can't just _unlearn_ everything we know. It's like a kid who accidentally learns that those cute little puppets he loves are at the end of some stranger's big, hairy tattoo'd arms; he can't ever look at them the same way, and his trust and faith evaporates. He starts to see the underside of everything. And he can't enjoy the puppet show anymore; it's just creepy after that. My Dad showed us the hairy arms, Edith, and the teeth and claws and evil that came with it. And then he taught us to seek it out and destroy it, wherever we are. So...Sam and me; we hunt these…bad things. At least, right now we do…and since we can't do much to fix the trouble we're in, we might as well try to keep ridding the place of these things, cuz we're under fire anyway."

She sighed, frowning. "You know...I would have had some choice words for that father of yours. No parent has the right to burden his children in that way! He should protect and…love and…foster joy in them!" She looked away, embarrassed. "Forgive me, dear; I speak out of turn. I never was blessed with children, but I have plenty of unsolicited advice for those who have been." she smiled.

He laughed a little. "It's ok, Edith. Dad could've used some…perspective, now and then."

She returned to the problem at hand. "Alright then; show me what you have there."

He slid the paper over and she read it slowly. He wasn't expecting any revelations; she had no experience in this, but it never hurt to have a fresh viewpoint when you were at a loss.

"My word…" she said softly. She read it over again. "So the salting and burning; it didn't work for Hannah, as it should have, and it didn't work for the child. But that was solved with the mother, when you broke the vial with the mementos… And we thought the lamb was what started it all, or at least the removal of it….but returning it did nothing. I wonder if there's some container like Hannah had, but for Emeline…something that held personal bits of hers; hair, ribbons...that sort. Perhaps buried under the spot that the lamb held?"

Dean looked at her, impressed. "Good thinking, Edith! It wouldn't hurt to dig down and see…and I wouldn't mind knowing what that inscription means, either; it could show us something."

She re-read his description. He'd mentioned it; that it wasn't latin, but something else. "What did Sam think when he read it...that it was possibly Gaelic?"

He nodded.

"You know, my father spoke Gaelic. Unfortunately I was too impatient, I never learned. But I know someone who can; she's in the church ways and means committee with me. Frankly I can't stand the woman; she's so holier-than-thou she's sure she farts grace. But I can ask her to translate it if you can write it down. Better yet; how about I join you when you go out to it?"

He shook his head adamantly. "No way! Look, Edith; it's cold, it's windy, and it's been a danger for everyone so far. I can't let you do that."

Now that was a red flag to a bull. She rose to that challenge and set him straight. "My dear; surely you did not just suggest to me that you would not allow it? These are _my_ ancestors, it's my house, and it's my nephew in there suffering! If I choose to involve myself in this, then I involve myself! I am not a child to be cautioned and chastised. And I may be slight; but my frame is iron, I assure you! So do not assume that I need your governance!" She put her hands to her hips, defiantly.

When Edith was riled, her speech was very formal, but her Maritime accent came sharply to the forefront. He chuckled, thinking -_what harm could it do-? "_My mistake, ma'am. When can you be ready?"

"I'm ready now. All I need are my boots and things."

"Well, good. Let's go then."

Edith checked on her sleeping charges while Dean left a note for Sam. That done, the unlikely pair got into the Impala and after it warmed up, they headed to the Rose Cottage.

* * *

><p>Edith hadn't seen the fire damage up close. She peered through the broken panes, clucking her dismay. But the shook it off, following Dean around the house to the back yard. The sky was cold, grey, and the long, soft grass was wet. It wrapped around and clung to their ankles as if attempting to hold them back from their purpose. They approached the spot; Hanna's stone rising above the dying fall plants. The lamb lay upturned from where they'd set it mere hours ago, when they'd placed it perfectly on its barren patch. Edith peered down into the hole. Nothing remained of the two bodies; all the bones had been turned to ash, leaving a damp grey powder, along with the twisted ball of plastic that had been Emeline's travel container.<p>

"They're down there...the two of them?" Edith asked. Dean nodded. She turned away from the hole, examining the lamb instead. She brushed at the bottom with her mittened hand, as bits of earth fell away, and she saw the words for the first time. "I can't see that clearly enough; can you write it down for me?" she asked Dean.

He leaned over, brushed the remaining debris from the lettering, and transcribed it as clearly as he could from what he saw.

"Try to read it, dear...maybe something will jump out from my memory."

He held it up to the weak morning light. "_In aice liom, a uainín, ní bhíonn tú caillte riamh_"

She repeated it herself. "Yes, that's Gaelic, alright. Though I'm afraid it might as well be Russian, for all I got out of that. We're going to have to call Beverly; what time is it, dear?"

Dean checked his watch. "7:30."

"Well, if she's not up yet, too bad. It's late enough that her jeezily lard-arse should be out of the nest by now!"

"Edith, I'm shocked!" Dean said in mock dismay.

She smirked guiltily. "Sorry, dear. I guess I'm a little edgy. Do you have a phone with you?"

He handed it to her. She rang her acquaintance. Dean turned away, not wanting to be caught in the sparring between two formidable old women. He returned to the lamb, and was about to look it over more closely when she joined him again. "Dean, could you read it to dear Bev.? I can't make it out."

He took the phone, and after introducing himself he read it slowly. She had him spell portions as well.

"Well; this is it, roughly. Got a pen handy?" He said so, and she continued. "Well...it's very old, the phrasing of it; not many people could translate it and you're lucky I was available… But I think this is pretty accurate: 'In aice liom, a uainín, ní bhíonn tú caillte riamh' means "_By my side, little lamb, you are never lost_."

Dean thanked her, and she asked to speak with Edith again. He heard Edith acknowledge the woman's wonderful skill and thank her through gritted teeth, upon which she returned the phone to him. "Well; that was a chore, let me tell you. I'll be paying for that for weeks. So what does it mean, then?"

He told her.

She grew slightly teary. "What a lovely sentiment."

"I guess." he shrugged. "Doesn't tell us anything helpful, though." He picked up a spade and started digging at the barren patch. Edith had begun to shiver with the cold, but she refused to complain. It was slow going; he found the motion of digging and pitching the dirt painful, and he stopped frequently.

"Are you alright, dear?" Edith asked, concerned he was overtaxing himself.

"Yeah, I'm just…out of practice. I'm fine." He dug down a few more feet, but the ground revealed nothing. It seemed pretty virgin and undisturbed. He tossed the shovel aside and sat at the edge of his newest pit, catching his breath and trying to stretch away the ache radiating through from his rib. "I don't think anything's down there." he said.

Edith tightened her scarf around her face as a few snowflakes meandered down. "Well...leave it be. Let's have a closer look at that lamb."

Dean hopped back down into his pit, took hold of the statue base and dragged it out of the weeds where he'd kicked it earlier, turning it into the light. This way it was almost eye-level with minimum bending, and he looked closely at the base, tracing his fingers over the shallow lettering. The words circled the perimeter, leaving the center empty of inscription. Edith crouched and squinted, but lamented that she still couldn't make anything out.

"Sorry, dear; I'm blind as a bat without my glasses...must've left them on the table. That's the inscription, going round the edge like that?"

"Yeah."

She thought for a minute. "Well that's a little odd, don't you think? Why go through that effort, instead of just carving it straight across the bottom?"

He agreed, scratching at the blank center until the remaining earth and rootlets fell off. He ran his fingers over the place again. "Edith, I think I can feel a bit of an edge here. Could you do me a favour, if you're up to it? I need my hunting knife; it's under the front seat."

"Of course, I can fetch it." She hurried off, and he continued to use his nails to reveal more of the new shape. It was a rectangle, right in the center. He heart beat faster. There was only one reason something like that could have been carved there; it wasn't part of the wording, and it was hardly a decorative element. It had to be a cover for a compartment. Edith returned with his knife. He showed her what he'd revealed so far, and she gasped in wonder. "It's a hidden space, isn't it?"

"I think so." He picked carefully at the outline, slowly dislodging the fine line of mortar that held the section tight in the surrounding stone. After fifteen minutes he had enough of it removed that he could feel the block shift a little within its borders. "I think it'll come out now, Edith. Ready?"

She nodded, and he forced the knife point in as far as he could, then pried upwards until the rectangular piece fell out, landing at his feet. He glanced at Edith; his mind fervently hoping, _praying; _ that this was what was missing, the key to this on-going tragedy. He carefully removed what was hidden within. It saw light for the first time in centuries. It was a small, green bottle. Dean held it up, describing it's contents to Edith.

"It's a little green bottle, just like Hannah's. Sealed with wax or something…looks like hair in it, some ribbon…uh...a couple of buttons.." He shifted its contents gently, revealing the other items. "Looks like a little porcelain animal...a kitten… .And some dried flowers."

"Roses..." Edith said softly. "Just like the painting...all the things that were precious to her."

It was a poignant little collection of all things Emeline. Just like Hannah had in her coffin. He knew what he had to do. "Edith; I have to destroy it… But it's what's holding her; some sort of spell or something, I don't know... When Hannah lost her to her sickness, she must have had this stuff put in the bottle and hidden in here, and she made sure the same thing was buried with her when she took her own life. The people must have known something was strange...especially with it being a suicide. There would have been whispering, accusations; that's why they wouldn't let her be laid in church ground. And she would have anticipated that; she knew she'd never be buried beside her daughter so she did it this way, to make sure the two witch-bottles would be together!"

"_By my side, little lamb, you are never lost_…" Edith said quietly. "It wasn't just poetry; it was literal. Do what you must, Dean; you know best."

Dean nodded. He laid the memento mori on the hard steel spade. Then he found a rock, and crushed the bottle, and it's precious contents, to dust.


	16. Chapter 16

16

What they saw then, was so satisfying...so beautiful. Edith would hold that imagery in her heart for the rest of her days. Dean was a little more hardened, but he too, would find it difficult to describe later.

Emeline appeared briefly, before them, the moment she was released from her unhappy tether; a misty, translucent wraith. She was no longer distressed, her crying a mere memory. She radiated happiness, relief, absolute child-like joy. They witnessed her ethereal form embrace, and blend, with another; her mother's, who shone with equal elation. The two circled, and spun in a slow and emotional dance, rising and dissipating finally in a fading mist. It left the two mortals shivering in the morning chill, having briefly experienced the absolute completion of the circle of those lives as it should have been two hundred years before.

At the end, Dean and Edith stared at the empty void left by this paroxysm of joy. Neither knew how much time had passed. Finally, they were brought back to the present; the cold, the pain, the immediacy, of the world that they belonged to. The snow began to fall in earnest; big, sparkling flakes, lazily drifting down, collecting on Edith's knit hat, and Dean's short hair. They landed on their eyelashes, clinging until they blinked them away. But they remained standing, the two of them, in silence. Finally the cold got the better of Edith, and she dusted the snow off her shoulders, smiled at Dean and made a motion toward the car. He nodded, and they walked through the crystal frosted grass back to the driveway.

* * *

><p>He let the car warm up, turning up the fan to bring some heat quickly. It was Edith who spoke first. She stared ahead, out the windshield as the snowflakes landed and melted on the glass. "I've gone to church all my life, Dean. I never had reason to doubt anything I was told, until this business with the lamb. But when it was all going so badly...I was so angry. They never taught us any of this; all those priests, all the books… How could anyone be prepared for such things, this strangeness, this misery… It was a sin to even believe such things….It threw a lifetime of unquestioning faith in doubt."<p>

She paused, still struggling to find the words that fit. "But after what I just saw... No, more than saw, I felt it, along with them…Such absolute pure happiness, such release from worldly pain. It was …good, and right." Tears brimmed in her eyes, and began to spill over. "Those fools in their black frocks…they can try to guide us all they want, I suppose it's not a bad thing to be steered to the good path. But this…._this_ is what brings my faith back. Nothing they said or read would ever have done it. I saw Hannah and her daughter find their peace. I can't imagine anything more beautiful than that."

Her little shoulders shook with her emotion. Dean leaned over and hugged her. He said nothing in response to her words. He was glad she was so moved. He was affected as well; he didn't often get to see the positive results of their battles; the most they usually got was the knowledge that their quarry was no longer a threat. But he still needed the proof that it was all over. He needed to hear that Sam and Dwight were free of their miseries as well. They drove the short distance in silence.

* * *

><p>Once back in the house, they pulled off their snowy clothing and were met by Dwight. He enveloped his tiny old Aunt, telling her quietly that the wailing had stopped, and all was as it should be again. He looked to Dean, catching his eye and nodding. Dean was relieved. –<em>One safe—one to go<em>… "Is Sam up?"

"Not yet. Go on ahead to the den; I'll bring you a cup of _tea_, or something. " He ended by mouthing the word whiskey.

Dean smiled. "Sorry, dude. Your aunt's on to you. She already offered me a snort of your hidden stash." He turned and headed to the den, leaving Dwight to Edith.

Dean pulled a chair over and sat beside his sleeping brother. He looked peaceful. The sedative had done its job, but its effects should be over by now. He could hear the conversation in the kitchen; -Edith describing what had happened, Dwight asking questions. He so wanted to wake Sam, but he was afraid to; just in case the effects of their morning foray hadn't extended to eliminating Sam's vision. He just sat and watched, cold, exhausted, and worried. He dropped his head into his hands for a few moments.

"Hey dummy...go to bed, you look like crap."

Dean snapped his head up at Sam's voice. "Is she...?"

"Yeah, Dean, she's gone. It's all good. " he smiled, rising to prop up on an elbow and scratch his hair. "So...what happened?"

Dean sighed a deep sigh of relief, and launched into a description of the morning. When he was finished, it hit him. It was over, finally. He had fixed it.

Sam shook his head in wonder. "Wow, that's really cool. I wish I'd been there to see it. And by the way, what were you doing out there alone? You're in rough shape, Dean! You should have gotten me up, I should have been there, in case something went wrong!"

"Nothing was gonna go wrong. And besides, I had a better sidekick along for the ride. Edith came with me. It wasn't exactly my plan, but she made it pretty clear she was coming anyway. And she came up with some good ideas, and she got the inscription translated too."

"Oh yeah? Well, what does it mean?"

"By my side, little lamb, you are never lost."

"Huh. Wow…I mean, that's really..."

"Yeah."

Sam got up to join the living. Unlike his weary brother, he was well rested. He frowned at the deep lines etched under Dean's eyes, his skin looking pale against his dark clothing. He looked older than his years.

"Seriously, Dean; go crash for a few hours. I'll go with Dwight to fill in the holes. He can watch, so you won't worry that I'll fall in and break my neck or something, ok?"

Dean nodded. With the lack of sleep, the earlier adventures, and the morning digging and cold, he was pretty wiped out.

Dwight entered with the promised tea and whiskey. He handed the tea to Sam, and the glass to Dean, and then sat down at the edge of the bed. "There you go, Dean. Nothing like a good snort first thing in the day." Dean raised the glass in a silent cheer, and drained it. "So...it's over, then. You did well, Dean, I thank you, both of you; for all your efforts in this little adventure."

"Well, it's what we do. You're welcome, Dwight." Dean shrugged.

"No! Don't reduce this like that, son. This may be a run-of-the-mill day for you boys, but this has been a profound experience for me, and for Edith. We could never, ever have solved it. We didn't even have the slightest clue how deep this went. And then your injuries because of it….hell, I have no idea how to repay you for that!" he shook his head.

"Dwight, Dean's right; it is what we do. We don't ask for anyone to repay us, and we know what we are up against so we know the risks going in, every time. Sometimes it works well and nobody gets hurt, and sometimes it gets rough. It's all part of the job."

"Well, nevertheless, Edith and I will find a way to even up." He stood up to take his leave. "You boys already know my intention to do what I can for you, professionally. We'll need to schedule some time to talk in depth, later. And I know that old woman out there in that kitchen is planning a helluva feast, to celebrate. You won't be in any great hurry to leave, I hope, now that this is over?"

Dean yawned. "Hell, Dwight...I don't plan to leave my bed for the next three days, let alone Edith's cooking. We'll stay around for a bit, if you don't mind. We can talk later, about…stuff."

Sam agreed. "And I can give you a hand with whatever needs to be done with the Rose cottage. We can clear out the burnt stuff, dry it out, at least winterize it so it's ready to repair in the spring."

Dwight shook his head with a smile. "You're a sucker for punishment, Sam. We'll talk. In the meantime, Dean; go to bed before you drop, and Sam; come and get some breakfast." He turned away, chuckling to himself.

Both brothers did as they were told.

* * *

><p>It was probably the most time Dean had ever spent in bed without benefit of a frisky companion. He wasn't serious when he wryly told Dwight he'd intended to stay horizontal for three days, but he slept for sixteen hours straight before anyone could successfully wake him to eat. Even he was surprised at how worn out he was. And he was a little anxious to learn how he had gone to bed in his jeans and shirt, but awakened in sweats…not to mention the four neatly placed bandaids on the dog bite on his arse… As he lay there, watching snow fall lightly in front of his window, Sam opened the door quietly and peered in.<p>

"Hey, Sam." he turned and smiled. "What time is it?"

"Half past Tuesday. You were out for a good long time."

"Seriously?"

Sam pulled a chair over and began peeling an orange. He split it in half, offering the other half to Dean. "Yeah, we tried to wake you a few times, but you seemed pretty happy where you were. And besides; I was worried you'd deck poor Edith. You've done it enough times to me when I've tried to get you up."

"Huh." He ate his orange wedges. "Well, what were you up to, while I was snoring away?"

"Dwight and I filled the holes back up. Then we built a frame around the lamb and the headstone and poured a concrete base around the both of them. You'd need a jack hammer to separate the two of them now...not that it matters anymore. Just symbolic, more than anything."

"Did you talk to Dwight about...that other stuff?"

"Yeah. I sat down with him and we got a lot of facts and dates together; names, places, most of the stuff he needs to start inquiries. He's still struggling with some of the realities as we know them. But he said he doesn't need to think along those lines anyway; it's plain and simple legal shit right now. I gave him David's name, and those two cops, and the Sheriff in Bethel county, the priest...everybody I could think of who knew and believed what we do. And I warned him about Henrickson."

"Oh. Good. So, I don't have to go into any of this crap with him?"

Sam looked at him quizzically. He hadn't realized how much Dean wanted to keep all these things to himself. He guessed it was easier for him to ignore then.

"Dean…does it upset you, to talk about this stuff?"

Dean sighed. "Some of it." He changed the subject. "Guess I should show my face to the good people. Is the bathroom free? I _so_ need a shower."

"Yeah, all clear, knock yourself out. I'll be downstairs; come down when you're pretty, Edith is working on a huge lunch."

"Perfect. This time I'm pretty sure I could finish it."

* * *

><p>Sam was at the table, in deep and serious discussion with Dwight when Dean came down. As soon as Edith saw him, she rushed to him and hugged him. "And here's the last of my three heroes. How are you, dear? Are you feeling better?"<p>

Dean was a little embarrassed at the attention. He scratched his head and smiled sheepishly. "Uh, yeah...thanks, Edith. Pretty comfortable bed you have there."

She beamed at him and ushered him to sit. He had a huge mug placed in his hands as soon as he was seated. He loved that.

"Are you well, son? Dwight asked, concern in his eyes.

"A lot better than a couple of days ago, that's for sure. Man, I love that feather thing. Way better than the ratty blankets we usually get to sleep with, that smell like beer, barf and armpits."

"That's gross, dude; you're at a table, you know." Sam rebuked.

Dwight laughed. "You boys sit. I'll help Aunt Edith bring in lunch."

When he was in the kitchen, Dean asked.. "So, what were you and Dwight talking about? You looked pretty serious."

Sam got a look in his eyes that seemed wistful, almost emotional. "Just…some stuff. I'll tell you later." He saw the worry instantly surface in Dean's eyes."Relax, it's _good_ stuff."

Dean would have to wait, as the lunch was being heaped in front of them now. Edith had made her famous soup, and she had thick slabs of warm, home-made bread, sliced meats, cheddar, fruit and a steaming apple pie. Dean was in heaven. "Dwight, how come you don't weigh four hundred pounds?" he asked through a mouthful.

"Edith only does this for guests, Dean. She serves normal portions when it's just us. And by the way, you're never allowed to leave!"

Edith scoffed and smacked her nephew. "Stop it, you make it sound like I starve you and we can all see that's not true!"

They all laughed at that. When they were completely stuffed, they praised the cook and offered to clean up, which she refused.

"No, stay out of my kitchen, that's my sanctuary. You three go sit in the livingroom. I'm sure Dwight can hunt up something that will warm your insides. I'll bring coffee in a bit." And she dismissed them, humming to herself.

* * *

><p>Dean sat by the woodstove, still feeling a bit chilled after being asleep for so long. Dwight brought whiskey for the three of them. "So...Sam, Dean; what's on your agenda now?"<p>

Dean was feeling carefree and comforted in this place at the moment. The question brought the harsh world back to the forefront. "Dwight..." he sighed, "I tell ya; right now I could stay here forever. But the truth is, we can't stick around much longer. Sam and me; we sort of attract trouble, and with cops, and feds on the lookout for us; we don't want to bring any crap down on anybody, especially you and Edith. The longer we're here, the more there's a chance you could get caught in all this."

Sam agreed, sadly. "We are so grateful for you and Edith putting us up, and for your legal help. It's really nice out here, I could get used to it. But Dean's right; inevitably we'll attract the attention of some one, or even some _thing_; that could really put you guys in harms way. We just can't live with that thought. So I guess we'll head out soon, maybe keep our ears open for new hunts while we tour around."

Dwight looked from one to the other with a sadness. "I wish I could say that you're being paranoid, but I believe you know what you're talking about." he frowned. "If things were different, you'd certainly be welcome to stay as long as you like. Edith loves having a full house and it gets pretty quiet with just the two of us. But I don't want to see her get hurt…either through collateral damage, or by having to witness you boys get hauled away, or worse."

Dean nodded. "I'm glad you're being clear-headed, Dwight. And you working on our defense; man, that's priceless to us. To be honest, I don't know how much you can really do to keep us out of the pen. Me, anyway. But it gives Sammy here some hope."

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean's patronizing. "Nice try, Dean; hanging out with you killed my natural optimism ages ago."

Dwight sipped his drink thoughtfully. "Sam, did you mention to your brother what we were discussing earlier?"

Sam shook his head. "Still trying to absorb that myself, Dwight."

Dwight turned to Dean. "Dean…As I said before; Edith and I are in your debt for what you did. And it's not just saving Edith's cash cow; there's more to it. You saved the peace in that house, and Edith will never forget how you freed the souls of Hannah and her daughter. That had a profound effect on her. And she knows a fair bit of your history. It saddens her deeply; this life you lead, the dangers you subject yourselves to."

Again, Dean tryed to shrug it off. "Dwight, as I said before; this is just what we do. You guys are not responsible for what happened to Sam and me; we would have faced the same things on any other hunt."

"Yes, I know." he said, dismissively. "But Edith saw your scars, Dean; when she helped Sam get you out of your day clothes after you fell asleep. You have a helluva lot of them. She was absolutely beside herself, feeling that her troubles had contributed a few more to your tally. And you know that woman; when she has something stuck in her craw, there will be no rest until she is satisfied she's done her utmost to fix things." He got up and refilled their glasses. Dean didn't know where all this was going and he was very uncomfortable. And he knew Sam was privy to it already.

Dwight continued. "So...you're wondering what the heck I'm yapping on about. Well, I'll get to it…but first, Dean, and I already said this to Sam; I want you to hear me out before you start your protests. And after I'm finished, keep in mind you can protest all you like, but her mind is set, and I have the experience to assure you that once it is-, she will not change it."

"Okaaay…" Dean said warily.

Dwight laid it out. "It is Edith's wish that the Rose cottage be left to you boys when she passes on."

Dean blinked at that bombshell. Of all the directions he thought Dwight's speech could take, that was definitely not one of them. "Say again?"

Dwight smiled patiently. "Dean... It is Edith's choice, she has decided to amend her will. You boys will inherit the Rose cottage on her passing. That's about as plain as I can put it."

Dean stared at Sam and Dwight with shocked disbelief. "What? _Why_? Christ, Dwight, we're strangers to you! She can't be serious! And _you_ sure as hell can't be happy about this! For shit's sake, it's like we'd be stealing it out from under you! No! No way!"

Dwight chuckled. He knew he'd get that reaction. He leaned forward and spoke earnestly. "Listen to me. This has nothing to do with me, ok? I am well set up. Money is not an issue for me, and I'm already going to inherit this house. I don't need two of them. And Edith and I; we have no heirs between the two of us, so it's not like you're robbing some poor kid of his due. She was going to bequeath the cottage to the church, but after all this, she got a better idea."

Dean spluttered, speechless. He looked to his brother for help.. "Sam?"

Sam simply smiled. He'd already traveled this path with Dwight. He knew where it went. He let Dean flounder.

"Look, Dwight; this is nuts! Edith's an old woman! She can't be in her right mind, doing something like this!"

"Now, Dean! You've been around her long enough to know she's got all her marbles in a tidy pile. And you go right ahead and suggest to her face that she's too old and senile to make her own choices. I guarantee that this won't even be an issue then, because she'll outlive you for sure!"

No one, other than Bobby, and David, and Ellen; had ever done something so profoundly good for them. Dean had no idea how to react. "I…I still don't get it…._Why_?"

"Because…she feels that you have suffered too much and given too much already, with no place to call home at the end of the day. And _that_, Dean; that is what would keep her awake at night, thinking that you boys have no home. You have to understand; home is everything to Edith. She was born here, grew up and married here, grew old, all in the place her ancestors chose so long ago. Those roots run deep. And she's suffered in her life, just like any one, but she had the comfort of home to get her through it. She wants that for you boys. And he's a little peeved at the church, anyway, for letting her down when it came to dealing with all this. She's still a faithful, God-loving person; she just has less use for all the rest of it. It comes down to this, boys. It makes her _happy_."

Dean was still in shock, but he came to realize that this was a done deal. He stared at the floor, his eyes blurring. Sam just continued his silly grin. "Well I…I don't know what to say, Dwight…" Dean murmured, keeping his eyes to the floor.

Dwight got up. "Dean; you don't have to say anything. It's a shock for you, I expected that. And in the present, it's pretty abstract. I mean, we're talking about the unhappy day that wrinkly little firecracker leaves us all to muddle through on our own. But just remember that Edith chose this, and it makes her happy. She doesn't like to talk about it, that's why she asked me to. So; how about we consider this dealt with for now?"

Dean nodded, still not raising his gaze. Dwight smiled gently as he patted his shoulder. He glanced at Sam and winked. "Sam, how about it; want to go over to the Rose cottage for a bit of clean-up?" he asked, heading into the hall.

"Sure, Dwight. I'll be there in a sec." He waited until they were alone. "Dean...you ok?"

"Yeah ...well, no, but…_man_… Sam, I gotta get outa here for a bit, do you mind?"

"Sure. Why don't you go for a drive? You can swing by the cottage later."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that. I'll see you later."

* * *

><p>Dean drove aimlessly, his mind and emotions churning. He let the car go where it seemed to want, finally ending up at the public dock in Annapolis. It was quiet. The boats were out, the tide high. Seagulls whirled lazily overhead, looking for leftovers from the scallop boats. A few walked around on the pavement, shrugging their wings and picking at this and that, and complaining when the morsel didn't measure up to their expectations. Dean stared at the water, as the sun sparkled on its rippled surface, looking warm despite the season.<p>

He covered his eyes and quietly broke down.

* * *

><p>Epilogue<p>

Edith wouldn't let him go.

At least for a good few minutes. They stood on the porch; the Winchesters and Edith and Dwight, solemn and unhappy. A weak autumn sun shone pale morning light on the shivering group. She knew that once the two of them were out of her house, out from under the safety of the umbrella of her attentions; she had no control over the perils and dangers they seemed destined to battle. They would face all those ugly things; they would sleep poorly in strange places, they wouldn't eat right… She held him in a tight hug, silently begging him to be safe, to stop chasing hurtful things, her tiny little old arms squeezing like an band of iron around Dean's middle.

He looked down, face reddened, but he didn't pull away.

Finally Sam told him to quit hogging, and she released him, teary-eyed. She did the same for the younger hunter.

She was very fond of both of them. But it was Dean who struck a chord in her…so like her late husband; brash, confident...careless. And she knew where he stood regarding his brother; she knew he was charged, by that father of theirs, and even more so by himself, with keeping Sam safe. But no one kept Dean safe. He shrugged off any attempts to do so, regardless of the source. She knew his future would be ruled by fear and pain and uncertainty, and there was precious little she could do to help that. But she'd done what she could; making sure in the end, that they had a blissful week of sound sleep, hearty meals and plain and tiring tasks. And then leaving the Rose cottage as their sanctuary, their home, when the strife ended. If it ever did. If she'd had a son, she'd have wanted that, at the very least, for him.

Dwight shook their hands with the solemnity of a father seeing his sons off to war. They had exchanged all means of contact, and it was not intended to be a final farewell. Dwight fervently hoped that it wasn't. He recommended a few sights to see, while they were in the area, and gave them some names of good destinations when they were ready to stop driving for a while. And he reiterated his intention to pursue their legal case.

After Edith's celebratory dinner that could have fed twice their number, and after some happy days spent repairing and winterizing the cottage, the brothers finally felt it was time to move on. They had a wonderful time with these open and generous people, and the best way to repay their kindness was to lessen their exposure to potential harm. And Dean and Sam knew that harm would find them. It was merely a matter of time.

They finally broke away and got into the Impala. Dean had started it earlier so that it was now good and warm, and the engine purred deeply in anticipation of a good run. He put it in gear, backed up, and was almost clear when Edith motioned frantically for him to halt. She disappeared into the house for a moment or two; reappearing, clutching the down duvets from the two guest beds. The fluffy pile of striped flannel dwarfed her; the only thing visible was a pair of spindly legs, and two hands. She came to the Impala's side, pried the door open and stuffed the bedding into the back seat. And she fled back into the house.

The brothers exchanged looks, not quite sure what to do. They looked to Dwight, who still stood on the step. He just shrugged, grinning, and waved. They returned the gesture and drove off'

* * *

><p>"Well, I guess you charmed yourself a granny-for-life." Sam teased.<p>

Dean scowled, embarrassed. "She's _your_ granny too, you know."

"Yeah. Sure."

They were silent for a while.

"Told ya." Dean said, finally.

"What?"

"That she liked me best."

Sam shrugged, smiling. Dean could win this one.

They got on the main highway towards Halifax, with no real goal in mind. It was an hour of silence before Sam broke it. "So…what do you the whole future home-owner thing?"

Dean shrugged, and sighed enigmatically. "It's a good idea. Real...what's his name; Norman Rockwell, you know? Nice to think about." He didn't want to finish his thought. -_but that's for other people, not us_…_we don't get that kind of happy ending…__I __don't get that kind-_

It was Sam's turn for silence now. He stared ahead for a little while, then turned to Dean. "You know, Dean; it is real. The cottage will be ours to go to when we need to. It's not supposed to be depressing, it's a good thing. Yeah, maybe a _way-in-the-future _kind of thing…but when this is all over, it will be really, really good."

"I know, Sam." He faked a smile. "When this is all over."

They drove for some time, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Finally Sam returned to the present. "So...any thoughts as to where to?"

Dean grinned. "Nope. But I know I'll sleep well when we get there."

-end-


End file.
